


The Haunting of Stannis Baratheon

by ShipMaester



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Detective Noir, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 123,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipMaester/pseuds/ShipMaester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon loved nothing more than bringing the guilty to justice.  As he stood over the bloody body of Sansa Stark, he was determined to catch her killer and make him pay.  He just never imagined the dark road he was headed down would lead him to fall in love with her ghost.</p><p>For those who bear with me in reading my Stansa fics, think 1940s dime store detective novel or a film noir.  This is inspired by an old movie classic and if you guess it, great . . . if not, I still hope you it works for you on some level. </p><p>GRRM would probably be really POed at what I'm doing with his toys in this one, but I'm definitely not doing anything more than playing.  Idea of Profit = really BIG joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tommyginger for the most befitting title (at least I hope it's still befitting by the time I'm done) and for being my muse.

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

“Baratheon,” Stannis mumbled into the phone while reaching for the light switch and checking his watch. It was after three in the morning. 

“Stannis, I need you to get to the station now!” He could tell the voice was Robert’s despite there being a garbling to the words. The words he spoke also made no sense coming from him. Why would his brother be telling him to get to the police station? 

“Are you drunk?” Stannis asked angrily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up on the edge of the bed. 

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before he heard Robert’s broken voice literally booming on the other end. “Get your ass down to the station now! Ned’s daughter was found dead a little over an hour ago by her aunt . . . someone has murdered Ned’s little girl!”

Stannis realized the garbling was not slurring, but emotion. His brother was a combination of angry and extremely upset. While he had never met her, Stannis knew Sansa Stark, who was his brother’s god-daughter, had moved to King’s Landing about two years ago. 

“I am sorry, Robert. How did you find out?”

“Robb called me . . . I . . . he asked me to . . . damnit, find whoever did this, Stannis!” The phone went dead. Before he got up from the bed, Stannis made two more calls. The first was to his Detective Sergeant, Davos Seaworth, to tell him to get dressed and meet him at the station. The second was to his Detective Chief Inspector Mormont. DCI Mormont wasn’t one to bend to pressure, but he could hardly say no to a high-ranking member of Parliament and one of the most powerful politicians in King’s Landing. Jeor Mormont was planning to retire at year’s end and Stannis had already been told he would be named the new DCI. Stannis doubted Mormont would put up too much of a protest, but he was certain whoever originally caught the case would. 

DCI Mormont told him that Robert had already called him, as had Robb Stark, the victim’s older brother. The scene was being secured by uniformed police until he and Seaworth could get there. Stannis opted not to call Seaworth back and asked that he be redirected to the apartment building once he got to the station. 

Stannis was showered and dressed in less than fifteen minutes, and on his way in twenty. The high-rise Sansa Stark had lived in was close to his townhome. Both lived in a fashionable part of town. As a Baratheon, Stannis had a trust fund and stocks in Baratheon Steel. His younger brother, Renly, now ran Barasteel after Robert ran and won his place in Parliament. Stannis spent more than a few free nights and weekends with Renly going over business dealings to help him keep the business afloat. Yet, he was drawn to the law while not wanting to prosecute cases. Stannis wanted to catch criminals, plain and simple. And no criminal was worse than a murderer, except possibly one who did something to a child.

As DCI Mormont had told him, there were four uniformed police on the scene and the coroner, Dr. Luwin, was still performing his on-site examination. The body was just inside the doorway and Stannis couldn’t remember a more gruesome, shocking sight. The body slumped back from the doorway was dressed in a blue satin and lace negligee, but the face, framed with long, thick red hair now matted with blood and brains, was gone and totally unrecognizable. This was the work of a double-barrel shotgun filled with buckshot. If there were a trial, he did not want Robert to see this, even in a black and white photograph.

Just as Dr. Luwin was turning the body over to him to examine, his sergeant arrived. Seaworth stood in the doorway next to him and his eyes went wide. “Fuck!” he exclaimed in reaction to seeing the victim’s face, or rather her lack of a face. They both finally stepped inside. 

“Well,” Luwin began. “Cause of death is obvious. Rigor is just now starting to set in, so she’s been dead somewhere between two to six hours. I think your boys in blue have a more accurate time from the neighbors who thought they were hearing a car backfire although how they think a car backfired near the hall inside their building is beyond me. I’ll get back to you with anything else I find after the autopsy.” 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Stannis said perfunctorily as Dr. Luwin left the apartment. Looking around, he saw high-quality furnishings of cherry wood tables in a variety of sizes from coffee tables, end tables, and occasional tables to velvet upholstered wing-back chairs and heavy damask draperies with cords and tassels. In contrast to the cherry woodwork was a clock encased in an ornate full-sized blonde maple cabinet. It looked out of place in the room as it sat against the wall near the doorway with blood stains marring the finish. 

Above the fireplace was a portrait that, although he had never met Sansa Stark, he could easily assume was of her. It wasn’t her mother, yet had the look of Catelyn Tully Stark who he met at Robert’s wedding. Ned and Catelyn Stark had been killed in a car crash about six or seven years earlier; Stannis wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been but it was something in that timeframe. The young woman in the portrait sat sideways in a black off-the-shoulder evening gown with one arm bent back toward her body so that her hand was posed on her long, bare neck. She was looking toward her shoulder which was draped with her coppery hair. The portrait captured the famed Tully blue eyes he remembered from her mother. The hand on her neck showed a ring with an oval blue solitaire of some sort, surrounded by diamonds. If the ring did exist as painted, and he had to guess, it was an aquamarine of about twelve carats. It was hard to tell if the painter deliberately had the stone match her eyes of if the stone actually accomplished that feat. 

“This woman’s hair is a different shade red than the portrait,” Stannis observed, looking between the body and the portrait. He also noted the ring wasn’t on her finger either, but didn’t remark on it. Society women changed jewelry quite often. 

“The difference in a painting and the real thing,” Seaworth shrugged, writing down notes about the arrangement of furniture and other details about the room. “Her hair is discolored by the blood and . . . everything . . . in it.”

“Not at the ends,” Stannis continued. “Portrait painters of this caliber seldom get things like hair color wrong.” He knew he was talking about a world his sergeant had little to no experience in except as an occasional observer, and he also knew his sergeant well enough to know that he was writing that observation down just in case it meant something later. It was possible that Sansa Stark had dyed her hair a different color. Ladies in the city, especially in high society, often did such things although seldom at her age. 

Walking into the bedroom, Seaworth was the first to speak. “It looks like there were two in the bed. Either that or she had a rough night and tossed and turned on both sides of the bed.”

Stannis agreed; there had been two in that bed since it was last made and a Sansa Stark probably had a housekeeper who made her bed daily just as he did. “Robert told me her aunt found her. Where is she now?”

He knew Seaworth didn’t yet know and watched as he disappeared to go ask the uniforms. While he was gone, Stannis looked around. The same caliber of furnishings decorated the bedroom. He saw a framed photograph of Ned and Catelyn Stark and another of a large dog, possibly a direwolf, on the right-hand nightstand. Atop the dresser was a picture of a smiling young man from the shoulders up. Even in the black and white photo, Stannis could tell he was in his late twenties and had light-colored hair. The man had an aquiline nose and was the sort of face that, unless it sat atop an awkward body, and he doubted that was the case, would attract a great deal of female attention. Upon closer inspection, the photo was signed, “Love, Harry.” 

Seaworth returned. “The aunt, a Lysa Arryn, was so hysterical she was taken to King’s Landing General. Uniforms said there was no blood on her. Neighbors questioned reported thinking a car had backfired a little over an hour before they heard her screaming hysterically. This would put the gunshot at around midnight.” Seaworth paused for a second, “Wonder why the aunt was visiting so late?”

“Good question,” Stannis countered, walking into the bathroom where he found the toilet seat up. Definitely evidence of the presence of a man. “We need to find out who the Harry in that photo is,” he said, pointing to the black and white on the dresser. “More than likely, he is the other occupant of that bed and since he’s not here, that makes him suspect number one.” 

Returning once more to the bedroom, he found Seaworth holding another framed photograph. “Is this . . . ?”

Stannis didn’t need to inspect it up close to recognized famed columnist Petyr Baelish with his rakish smirk and head full of dark hair that grayed at the temples. “It’s who you think it is . . . Petyr Baelish.” 

“Wonder if she has this because she knew him or if she was merely a fan?” Seaworth pondered aloud. 

Stannis already knew the answer to that, or had a pretty good idea that he would be right. “Baelish was a childhood friend of her mother and aunt. I would say she knew him and knew him well.”

“I’d ask if she knew him well enough for him to be the bedmate, but this picture was face down on the top of the chest of drawers. So if he was her lover, I doubt he was her lover tonight,” Seaworth returned. It was their job to speculate such things, yet the idea of the beauty in the portrait with a smarmy, self-important waste of space who made his living as a gossip made Stannis a bit unsettled. 

They stayed at the house for another hour, taking notes and making drawings before leaving the uniforms to lock up the apartment. Stannis found himself staring at the portrait of Sansa Stark as if it would tell him how this happened to her; it didn’t. If anything, it confused him all the more. While he didn’t say so to Seaworth, he knew this particular portrait painter and how well he captured his subjects. When Stannis looked at the portrait of Sansa Stark, he saw more than a beautiful woman. He saw serenity and breeding. Not a woman you would expect to have a lover in her bed at some point and then have someone else ring her doorbell and pulverize her face with buckshot. 

When they finished, they stopped by KLG Hospital and found that Lysa Arryn had been sent home in a cab, being given a strong sedative. Stannis sent Seaworth home to get a few hours of sleep while he went to Robert’s brownstone. 

Robert’s full-time housekeeper, Mrs. Caswell, answered the door. “Good morning, Mr. Stannis. Mr. Robert is in his study.” The older woman looked genuinely worried and he wanted to ask her how drunk Robert was, but decided against it. She held out her hand for his hat and he gave it to her. Stannis thanked her and made his way through the foyer to the stairs, going one flight up to get the room Robert had set aside as his study. 

Stannis hadn’t seen Robert in a good six months. He heard him on the radio and saw grainy photos of him in the newspaper, but seeing him now, Robert looked like he’d aged ten years in that small amount of time. Surprisingly, Stannis could tell that Robert was completely sober yet his face was tear-stained and the whites of his eyes were streaked with red. Stannis sat opposite him. 

“Robb is in Qarth on business and, leaving tomorrow, it will be four days before he gets here by ship. Getting to the nearest airport would cut the trip by one day, but he risks weather and there being an even longer delay. He wants to be the one to tell his younger sister and has taken steps with her school to try to shelter her from the news until he can get to her,” Robert reported in a monotone voice, not looking him in the eye. “It could be closer to a week before he gets here with his sister.” 

He’d never seen Robert look so vulnerable. Finding him sober in the face of a crisis was more than a little surprising and totally out of character for the brother he thought he knew. Perhaps he didn’t know Robert as well as he thought he did. “I need to know what you can tell me about Sansa’s social life,” he requested, trying his best to gentle his own tone and not sound like a detective. 

The look his older brother gave him was more to be expected had Stannis asked him what number was green or something equally bizarre. “Social life?” he repeated eventually, coming back out of whatever stupor he briefly went into. “She stayed here for the first month she was here. Myrcella and I helped her find her first apartment. After that, we had dinner together at least once a week. Myrcella would join us. I would take them both sailing once in a while.” Myrcella was Robert’s daughter from his first marriage, although Stannis strongly suspected all three children from that marriage had different fathers, and not one was fathered by Robert. It took all he had to keep that suspicion to himself, having no real proof. “We were at The Crimson Room and Petyr Baelish came up to the table, asking to be introduced. Sansa was taken with him instantly because he was someone who would talk to her about her mother. The poor girl was still devastated at their death. Petyr would talk about Cat whereas I avoided any talk of Ned. I saw much less of her after that, maybe once a month. She invited us to dinner after she moved into the new apartment. You could tell Baelish picked it out. That it wasn’t in his building says she had some sense to maintain a distance from him, although I’m not sure it was a conscious decision. I worried about her relationship with Baelish, but was busy with . . . I was busy. The last time I saw her was at Myrcella’s nameday party. That would have been . . . “

“Six weeks ago,” Stannis finished for him. He may not be close to his niece, but he had a head for such details and recalled them easily. Stannis did _like_ Myrcella; she was the only one of the three children to pay Robert much attention after the divorce. Her older brother, Joffrey, could go to the moon and he wouldn’t be far enough away for Stannis’ liking. The younger brother was a mama’s boy; Stannis hoped he’d grow out of it. 

“She told me she was engaged, although she had no ring. I held my breath for fear it was to Baelish, but it was to someone I’d never heard of . . . a Harrold Hardyng.” 

“Do you know anything about this Hardyng?” Stannis pressed, hating himself for doing so. He had a name and he could leave Robert alone now, yet he wasn’t sure Robert should be alone. 

“No,” Robert replied, looking away from him and staring into space. “Do you think he did it?”

Even if he were absolutely certain Harrold Hardyng was the murderer of Sansa Stark and even though he abhorred lying, Stannis wouldn’t tell Robert that bit of information unless and until whoever he was positive committed the murder was safely locked in a cell at headquarters. He knew this was the calm before the storm and if Robert could kill the person who harmed Ned’s daughter, he would do it and take the consequences. “No. There is no clear suspect yet, Robert.” 

They sat in silence for several minutes. Stannis was just about to suggest Robert go lie down for a while and promise to call with any new developments when Robert, still staring straight ahead, asked, “Is it true her face was blown off?”

“Where did you hear that?” Stannis inquired rather than answer the question.

“Robb. He always tells Lysa where he is and how to reach him when he leaves Winterfell as she is his co-guardian for Arya. She told him how unrecognizable Sansa was.”

This wasn’t a lie Stannis could tell. “Yes, Robert. She was unrecognizable save the long red hair.” He started to add that if she weren’t in her own apartment, you wouldn’t have known who it was, but decided against it. 

“I thought Ned’s sister Lyanna was the most beautiful woman I ever saw with Catelyn a close second. In truth, Sansa was more beautiful than both of them.”

Having seen the portrait, Stannis found it easy to believe. If the portrait was anything to go by, then she was easily one the most beautiful women he wished he had met. Whoever killed her wanted to take that beauty away from her. 

“She did charity work. The social contacts both Baelish and I helped her make allowed her to be successful as a fundraiser, but there was more to it. She . . . she got her hands dirty. She served in soup kitchens and I heard her tell Myrcella about helping a crew clean out a rat-infested tenement to try to make it livable for the inhabitants. Ned would have been so proud . . . hell, I was proud. She got Myrcella involved and, of course, I used my daughter the do-gooder as part of my campaign, opportunistic shit that I am.” Tears fell unchecked down his brothers round face. 

Stannis really didn’t want to leave him alone, although he was not the most desirable company for his brother. It was only another ten minutes before he heard someone running up the stairs and Myrcella burst in, promptly falling at Robert’s feet and laying her head in his lap, dissolving into tears. “I heard it over the radio, Papa!” 

Absently stroking her hair as though she were a kitten, Robert said nothing. “I’ll leave you,” Stannis said, standing to make his exit. He hadn’t realized Myrcella didn’t know he was there until she jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her head in his chest, her blonde hair awry as though she had made a vain attempt to put it into a bun before she left and did not quite complete the task. Not knowing what else to do, Stannis patted her shoulder awkwardly. It occurred to him that Robert was showing more feeling for a god-daughter than he knew how to express for his niece. If it was true she wasn’t his niece by blood, it wasn’t her fault and he doubted it would make any difference to Robert, except in his rants against Cersei. Stannis wasn’t fond of Robert’s rants, but he would never fault the emotion behind any verbal tangent he went on regarding his ex-wife. 

“I didn’t see you, Uncle Stannis,” she sniffled, letting go and stepping back from him. “Are you the one investigating Sansa’s . . . the case?”

“Yes.” 

Myrcella looked at him through watery green eyes. “Good. I know you will catch whoever did this . . . for us.” 


	2. Chapter 2

King’s Landing, 1940  
Davos Seaworth

After about three hours of sleep and a breakfast he could barely touch after what he had seen the night before, Davos kissed Marya and patted her swollen belly as he left for the station to meet Detective Inspector Baratheon.  Baratheon wasn’t a guy you could call by his first name, at least he couldn’t.  Nor was he a guy you called up to have a beer.  But he was the best detective on the force and Davos called him friend despite the fact that he doubted Baratheon knew the names of more than one of his three sons.  Sure, he’d heard all their names, but Davos was never sure Baratheon listened to idle chitchat that wasn’t case related.  If he did, he never commented on it. 

Once he arrived at the station, Baratheon announced that their first stop would be to see Petyr Baelish.  DI Baratheon was wearing the same clothes he had arrived at the murder scene in; it would be no surprise to find that Baratheon had been up what was left of the night after he sent Davos home for a few hours of sleep. 

Baratheon told him he had learned the _Harry_ in the picture was Harrold Hardyng and little else as he drove to a high-rise similar to the one Miss Stark had lived in.  This time, they were going to the penthouse.  A young maid in a uniform let them in and then disappeared.  He was glad she did not attempt to take their hats; Davos always found that awkward.    “Does journalism pay for a place like this?” he heard himself postulate out loud as he took in the lavishly apportioned penthouse.  Miss Stark’s place had been nice, but nothing like this.  Davos was no connoisseur, yet he knew rare antiques when he saw them and he bet the oil paintings on the wall cost a small fortune.  One of the things that caught his eye was a glass showcase with a variety of objects that were probably valued at more than his last five years of income. 

“No,” Baratheon answered.  “Radio broadcasts, product endorsements, and knowing the right people does however.” 

“That is true,” came a voice from a half-closed doorway that opened to reveal a man in a black bathrobe with a bird embroidered in green on the upper left.  He was little shorter than both Baratheon and himself, possibly five feet nine inches, with thick, wavy dark hair tinged with gray . . . mostly at the temples.  This was the man in the framed photograph he’d found on the chest of drawers in Sansa Stark’s bedroom.  He did not look like someone mourning the death of a close friend or lover.  If anything, he looked like someone ready to enjoy the attention the present situation was about to bring. 

“We met once before, Mr. Baratheon  . . . at a fund-raiser for your brother’s campaign.  However, I don’t know your sidekick.  How do you do, I am Petyr Baelish.” 

No hand was extended to shake and Davos was glad of it as he merely announced that he was DS Seaworth. 

“I assume you are here to question me about Sansa.” Baelish stated, walking over to a table and taking a cigarette out of a box and using the lighter on the same table to light it.  He took a few puffs, “We were quite close and it would be an egregious insult to the closeness of our relationship to not be considered a suspect, at least initially.” 

It took about two years before Davos felt himself proficient in reading Baratheon’s various scowls.  The one he currently wore was one of disgust.  “When did you last see Miss Stark?”

Baelish took a long drag from the cigarette and then lifted the box toward them both as a way of asking if they would like one.  Davos used to smoke until he became Baratheon’s DS.  The man hated cigarette smoke with a vengeance.  Both ignored the box and waited for him to answer.  “Three nights ago at the Valyarian Ball, and we spoke on the phone the next day.  We were supposed to have dinner together last night but she canceled our usual standing engagement during that phone call saying that she was going out of town for a few days and would ring when she returned. “

Davos waited for Baratheon to ask if Miss Stark said where she was going.  When he didn’t, continuing to scowl at Baelish, he decided to step in.  “Do you know where she was planning on going and when; did she tell you?”

“Sansa had a cottage toward the tip of the Blackwater Bay peninsula.  I assumed she was going there, but I didn’t ask any specific questions.  Please forgive my manners.  Would you like to sit down?”

“No thank you,” Baratheon finally spoke.  His eyes wandered around the drawing room and Davos saw where they landed.  So did Baelish. 

“You notice the clock, I see.   There are only two like it in the world and Sansa has . . . or had . . .  the other.  I gave it to her as a nameday gift earlier this year.  I should like to get it back now that she’s gone.  I presume you wish to know where I was last night.  I was home by eight o’clock where I had dinner here and then read until I fell asleep.” 

Davos made notes of all Baelish said while he watched with a look of amusement. 

“When did you meet Miss Stark?”  Baratheon asked next. 

Baelish smiled, his mouth widening but it never reached those beady eyes that just stared back at Baratheon.  “I’m surprised you don’t already know the answer to that, Detective.  Have you not yet talked with your brother this morning to find out what he knows about his god-daughter?”

“Answer the question.”  Baratheon’s jaw began to clench, which meant he had talked to his older brother and did know the answer. 

“If you insist.   I met her at The Crimson Room where she was having dinner with your brother and niece.  I recognized her right away.  She could only be Catelyn’s daughter with those eyes.  The poor girl wanted to hear about her mother and no one knew Catelyn better than I.” 

Davos waited to hear the next question and was surprised by the bluntness of it this early, even from Baratheon.  “Were you in love with her?”

Rather than be insulted or put out by the question, Baelish shrugged and gave one of the strangest responses Davos had ever heard to any question he’d ever asked while investigating a homicide case.  “Dr. Frankenstein was written to not have loved his creation, but I assure you I quite loved mine.  Sansa was a beautiful child when I met her and I created a ravishing woman of poise and grace.  I taught her how to dress, where to dine, where to get her hair styled, who was who, and a host of other things you probably wouldn’t understand having turned your back on the best of society, Baratheon.  The question was not whether I loved her.  It was impossible not to love her, although I question the value of the love others tried to foist on her.”

The disgust scowl was even more pronounced now as Davos stole a glance at his superior.  “You’re saying the question is did she love you.”

“Hmmmmmm, that would be the question, wouldn’t it,” Baelish quipped, taking another drag off his cigarette.  “I’d be curious to know what Robert thinks.   Did he tell you?” 

“It would be more interesting to know what Harrold Hardyng thinks,” Baratheon replied.  Davos suspected this had become less of an inquiry and more of a verbal fisticuffs. 

“That it would!” Baelish agreed with facetiously exuberance as he stubbed out the rest of his cigarette in a crystal ashtray.  “May I go with you to ask him?  I assume he’s next on your list of calls to make.” 

Baratheon cocked his head sideways slightly.  “In one of your columns about six months ago, you wrote an article about the Frey murder.”

Baelish looked as confused as Davos felt, but he had learned long ago to just pay attention when Baratheon made these side trips for they always went somewhere important.  “I remember,” Baelish retorted. 

Baratheon continued, “You said Frey was killed with a shotgun loaded with buckshot . . . the way Sansa Stark was murdered last night.”

“Did I?” Baelish shrugged with no additional pithy remark.    

“Yes.” Baratheon responded calmly, with eyes still inspecting Baelish’s every movement.  “However, Frey was killed with a sash weight.”

“I am in the entertainment side of journalism, Baratheon.   If the truth is boring, I embellish it a bit.”

Davos knew what was coming and tried not to smile.  “Do you mean embellish the truth to make it more interesting, such as spinning a tale of your making a green northern girl into a King’s Landing social butterfly?  Or, do you mean embellishing the truth to make yourself appear innocent, such as spinning a tale about where you were last night?” 

Baelish did not seem the least bit intimidated by Baratheon’s accusations.  “I’ve always heard you were the wittier Baratheon.  Have you any other questions?  After this morning, I may feel compelled to have my attorney present for any further questioning so I would get them in while you can.” 

“I think we’re done for now,” Baratheon announced.  “We’ll see ourselves out.” 

Smirking, Baelish followed them to the door anyway.  “Please give Lysa my love and by all means, do have someone take pictures when you put handcuffs on Hardyng.  I’d like a copy of the best one to frame.” 

Once they were outside the high rise, Davos took a deep breath as if the air were someone cleaner now that he was out of that penthouse and the building that contained it.  “I really hope that rat bastard is guilty so we get the pleasure of throwing his ass in jail.  Much as I hate it, I’ve got to admit, he didn’t act like someone trying to hide anything.” 

“Did he act like someone suffering from grief at the loss of someone he believes he _created_ and had a lot invested in?”  Baratheon asked, starting the car once they were both inside and throwing it into reverse. 

“Nope. Can’t say he did that either.”

Baratheon backed out of the parking space and pulled into oncoming traffic.  “The definition of a psychopath is someone with an inability to love or establish meaningful relationships.  It doesn’t mean they don’t want to be worshipped or adored.  A psychopath would mold someone into being worthy enough to worship them.  A psychopath would also not take the affection they thought should be theirs out of gratitude going to someone else as an easy loss.”

Davos couldn’t bring himself to tell Baratheon that there were more than a few who would say that he had an inability to love or establish meaningful relationships.  Yet no one, most certainly not him, would ever call Stannis Baratheon a psychopath . . . _machine_ , maybe, but not psychopath.  Davos was grateful to have the opportunity to work as his DS.  Baratheon was a legend for having graduated from university at twenty and finishing law school at twenty-three.  Instead of becoming a high-powered attorney, he served in the prosecutor’s office for two more years before joining the police force.  His education and abilities saw him in uniform for only a year before making detective sergeant and he had the record for making detective inspector, at least in King’s Landing.  Word was he would replace DCI Mormont when he retired.  The speed with which he made rank irked some, but no one could deny the results.  The man was driven and obsessed with justice.  Most of the time, if he studied the situation long enough, Davos could eventually follow Baratheon’s train of thought.  Then there were times it was a complete mystery to him, like last night or this morning rather.  Several times he saw Stannis staring at the portrait of Sansa Stark.  There was his observation about the hair color, but other than that, Davos had no idea why he kept staring at the portrait and what he expected to learn from it. 


	3. Chapter 3

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

Stannis spent the car ride to yet another penthouse telling Seaworth what he knew about Lysa Arryn.  “She is the younger sister of Miss Stark’s mother.  Married a much older man.”  Stannis left out that the older man, Jon Arryn, had been a Member of Parliament and had been Robert’s political mentor.  “Her husband died shortly after Miss Stark’s parents.  The best term for Mrs. Arryn would be ‘society matron’.  She probably hosted many of the fundraisers Miss Stark was involved in.” 

Showing badges to the doorman and insisting they not be announced or it would mean his job, they rode the elevator in silence, getting off at the fifty-second floor.  Stannis knocked on the penthouse door, noting that Seaworth stood back from him a bit to allow him to be the first to introduce them and their purpose.  The door was answered by the maid who took their hats and was not happy when, once he heard a man’s voice in another room, Stannis told her that they would not wait and to take them to Mrs. Arryn now.  She led them to a dining room.  Huddled close together with plates half filled with various breakfast foods such as eggs and sausage, they found not only Lysa Arryn, but Harrold Hardyng.  Mrs. Arryn sat at the head of the table dressed in a silky white robe with a lacy negligee of some sort peeking through the v-neck where the robe joined together.  Hardyng sat at her right attired in a smoking jacket and pajama bottoms.  Not being announced had paid off.  “Mrs. Arryn, I am DI Baratheon and this is DS Seaworth.” 

“Of course!” she exclaimed, letting out a breath.  “I am sorry; I wasn’t expecting you this early.  Allow me to introduce Harrold Hardyng.”  Stannis chalked up Mrs. Arryn’s startled expression to her trying to figure out how they had arrived with no warning from either the doorman or the maid.  He attributed her flushed cheeks to embarrassment at how obvious it was that Hardyng did not just happened by early to join her for breakfast, although it was possible it came from recent exertions.

Stannis took a good, long look at the man Robert had told him was Miss Stark’s fiancé.  The light-colored hair that was evident in the black and white photo that had been on her dresser turned out to be a sandy blonde and the deep set eyes were blue.  His shoulders were wide and his physique was muscular; just the sort of man to turn a young girl’s head.  At the moment, he looked as if he hadn’t slept despite the sleep attire.  The first question on Stannis’ mind was if Hardyng did spend the night here, did he maintain a change of clothes here or was what he wore some leftover clothes of Jon Arryn’s?   A routine look at the files found no prior arrests or warrants, but there had been two complaints that were not followed up on by women claiming he had charmed them out of modest sums of money.  Forensic detectives were attempting to get his bank records and review them.  Stannis strongly suspected that going to Lysa Arryn for a shoulder to cry on hadn't accidentally ended in their first night together, nor did it have anything to do with her being Sansa’s aunt and more to do with her being a wealthy, lonely widow. 

“Mrs. Arryn, I have a few questions for you and since we were going to your apartment next, Mr. Hardyng, we will question you also.  However, we need to question you separately.  Mrs. Arryn, have you somewhere Mr. Hardyng may wait?” 

“Separately?” Mrs. Arryn huffed indignantly.  “That suggests we are suspects and not . . . not bereaved family who just lost a loved one and are together to grieve!” 

Stannis looked between the two of them, Mrs. Arryn with her dyed auburn hair and her graying eyebrows with the previous day’s penciling in having faded and Hardyng with more fear in his eyes than grief.  It was possible she wasn’t thinking clearly after the large dose of sedatives from the night before, but he wasn’t buying that those same sedatives had been responsible for this tryst.  Stannis wanted to assure her that he was not someone she could intimidate with her social standing.  “I eliminate individuals from our inquiries rather than factor them in, Mrs. Arryn.  You found your niece and I have questions for you.  This is your home and I cannot compel you to send someone out of a room if you do not wish it.  However, I can force you to dress and come to the station with us to be questioned there where the only person you can insist on being present with you is an attorney.  Please choose now how you wish this questioning to occur.” 

Mrs. Arryn glared at him before turning and giving Hardyng a wan smile.  “Harry, please wait in the drawing room.”

“Sure Lysa . . . I’ll wait for you there.”  Hardyng's voice was weak and his eyes darted between Lysa Arryn and them.  Stannis noted that Hardyng did not need instructions on how to get to the drawing room. 

Stannis glanced at Seaworth, who gave him an acknowledging look in return.  That man was hiding something and he was terrified of it being found out.  It was possible all it was about was his being here with the aunt.  Stannis wasn’t sure giving him time to calm himself and hone a concocted story was a prudent course of action.  Then again, he didn’t look smart enough to do it well and it could be the very thing that would trip him up and give them what they needed if he was Miss Stark’s murderer. 

Once Hardyng had left the room, Mrs. Arryn finally offered for them to sit.  Stannis decided this could take a while if she were uncooperative and accepted the offer.  “Would you like coffee?” she further offered, suddenly remembering the curtesies for which she and her sister had been well known. 

“No thank you, Mrs. Arryn,” Stannis answered for both of them.  If Seaworth wanted coffee, they’d get it back at the station.  “Why did you go to your niece’s apartment at such a late hour?”

Mrs. Arryn raised an eyebrow.  “Harry told me she was planning to go away for a few days to her cottage and I wanted to talk to her about the upcoming wedding before she left.”

“Why not phone her?” Stannis asked, watching Seaworth writing in his notebook in his peripheral line of sight.  “What questions were so important that you needed to take a cab around midnight?” 

Taking in a deep breath, Mrs. Arryn looked at various art work on her dining room wall and Stannis strongly suspected she was trying to think of a good answer.  He gave her the rope to see if she would hang herself with it.  “Harry told me they were going to be married later that week after she got back from a few days at her cottage.  I felt it was rushing things and that her mother, my sister, would have wanted her to have a proper wedding with all the trimmings rather than a rushed business with a justice of the peace.  That was not a conversation for the telephone and I had no idea what time she would leave the next day or whether I would be able to catch her for such a conversation in time when she returned.  It was not her habit to retire early.” 

“Did you approve of the marriage?” 

Stannis saw Mrs. Arryn’s eyes darken.  “I introduced them,” she deflected.  “I adore them both.” 

“That is not a direct answer to my question, Mrs. Arryn,” he pointed out firmly, noting she still referred to Miss Stark in the present tense which had no real significance in and of itself. 

“Should I have any objection?”

“There are several reasons why you might,” Stannis pointed out, getting ready to bait her for a reaction.  The uniforms last night said Mrs. Arryn had no blood on her when Dr. Luwin, having come there as a medical examiner, thought she might be in shock and recommended that she be taken to General Hospital.  Her closest neighbor made that ridiculous report of the _backfiring car_ about an hour before hearing Mrs. Arryn’s scream.  She had time to kill her niece out of jealousy, get back and change clothes, then return to be the one to discover the body.  Mrs. Arryn’s purpose there could easily have been to try to dissuade her niece from marrying Hardyng. 

“Such as?” she queried, stepping up to take the bait so to speak. 

“You could know something about Mr. Hardyng that made you believe him not suitable for your niece, such as his repeated attempts to obtain money from well-to-do women and his lack of compunction at sleeping with them.” 

Again, he suspected the sedatives taken the night before made her unable to rise to the occasion to give a better performance, but Mrs. Arryn did make an effort.  “I don’t like what you are inferring!” 

Seaworth kept writing and Stannis knew him well enough to know that when he was concentrating intently on writing in that black book of his, it most often meant he was trying not to laugh or roll his eyes. 

“What is your relationship with Mr. Hardyng?” 

“Now I most certainly do not like what you are implying!”  Her evasive maneuvers continued, now with the same color of eyes in the portrait of Sansa Stark staring back at him, wide and angry. 

Stannis wasn’t the least bit daunted, although it was quite possible he would hear about this from DCI Mormont later.  There was no denying those at the top of the social ladder had the mayor’s ear and the mayor did not mind calling the Police Commissioner whose next call would be to his DCI.  It wasn’t something that worried Stannis.  “Mrs. Arryn, we are having Mr. Hardyng’s bank records pulled this morning and combed over.  We are doing the same to your bank records.  If you have any checks written to Mr. Hardyng or withdrawals of cash that might coincide with similar deposits made by him, it would be best to tell us about it now.” 

“That is an invasion of privacy!” came the familiar lament. 

“Which is not nearly as tragic as the invasion of your niece’s home and being shot in the face close range with buckshot.”

His harsh words made her flinch, yet there were no tears.  “It was a horrible sight . . . “ she said to no one in particular.  Stannis let her calm herself for a moment before repeating enough of his question about Hardyng and money again to remind her to answer.  “Yes, I gave Harry money.  I cannot give you an amount for I did not keep records of it.” 

“And what did you get in return for this money, Mrs. Arryn?” 

“It is my money, Mr. Baratheon,” she sneered at him.  “I may lend or give it to whomever I please for whatever reason I so choose.”  Stannis took that as an admission of the obvious and decided to leave her with a small ounce of dignity. 

That left only one important question to ask for the present.  “Are you in love with Mr. Hardyng?”

“I’m tired of your questions, Mr. Baratheon.  If you want to ask me anything else, perhaps it is time for you to do so with my attorney present.”

To be honest, Stannis was surprised she hadn’t invoked the request for an attorney before she answered the money question.  He had far more out of her than he thought he would get.  “Would you like us to take Mr. Hardyng to the station for questioning and leave your home?”

Something akin to fear showed on the woman’s eyes, yet it wasn’t quite that.  The best he could make of it was she was her being appalled at the idea of Hardyng at a police station.  “My drawing room is at your disposal.”  With that, Lysa Arryn rose from the dining room table and made her exit. 

“One more suspect,” Seaworth acknowledged.  “I thought it was odd her being at her niece’s apartment so late at night, but I didn’t see all this coming.” 

Stannis made no reply and led him into the drawing room where Harrold Hardyng looked anything but at ease, not that at ease would be expected of a fiancé whose intended was found murdered and it certainly wasn’t expected of a fiancé discovered in another woman’s home in pajamas the morning after.    

“How long had you known Miss Stark, Mr. Hardyng?”  Stannis started, not bothering with any conversation or condolences before he dived into his purpose. 

“Two months.”

It took an effort not to react.  It was true that he hadn’t known Sansa Stark, but he had briefly known her father and her mother and, through Robert, had heard much of her father.  There was a time when he had been jealous of his older brother’s regard for Ned Stark, which far surpassed his regard for his younger brothers.  The young lady Robert described, the one who did charity work and got her cousin involved in it, sounded like the daughter of the serious-minded Ned Stark.  One who would get engaged and rush to marry someone she had only known for two months did not.  “Was there any particular reason for the rush?”

“Why wait?” Hardyng retorted a little too vehemently. 

“I can think of several reasons, such as your lack of employment.”  Stannis was in no mood to sugar-coat his words or be more delicate. 

Harrold Hardyng did look embarrassed.  “Sansa felt she could help me get a job with one of the charities she supported.  Something on an executive board.” 

“And are you qualified for such a job, Mr. Hardyng?” he inquired, causing Seaworth to accidentally let loose with an audible snicker.  “We found no previous work history for you in King’s Landing.” 

The young man looked increasingly uncomfortable.  “I have only been here less than a year.  Before that, I lived on my family’s estate in Harrenhal until we had financial misfortune.  I was not trained for the work-a-day world.” 

Stannis remembered a rather vulgar expression one of his former superiors used to let loose with upon hearing such a story  . . . _sympathy was between shit and syphilis in the dictionary_.  “Did you plan to live off of Miss Stark’s money?”

He could tell this was a man who hated talking to men; Hardyng would rather be surrounded by women he could charm and con, and who were less likely to challenge him.  “If that was my plan, then my being the one to kill her would make no sense.”

“Unless she had changed her mind.”

Hardyng huffed out an exasperated breath.  “That still would not make sense.  I wouldn’t get any money from a dead Sansa Stark.  Alive, I might have been able to change her mind.  Of course, we’re talking IF my plan was to live off of her money.” 

Stannis found it more likely that his plan was to marry her for her money and simultaneous work the aunt’s affections, possibly in and out of her bed, for additional funds he would then make look like his contribution to their income.  That said, Hardyng was right about one thing.  Stannis couldn’t find a solid motive for killing her . . . yet. 

“Were you in her bed last night . . . before you came here?”

This made Hardyng angry.  “How dare you ask such a question and impugn the reputation of a dead girl who cannot defend herself!”

He wasn’t sure how far he wanted to take this right now and backed off.  The only scenario he could come up with that placed Hardyng in her bed at the time of the murder meant that Lysa Arryn showed up assuming he was there.  The shot was definitely from just inside the doorway.  Hardyng would have seen what she had done and was now here with her protecting the only money source left to him at the moment.  It was the most plausible scenario he had yet to come up with.  Still, _Lysa Arryn with a shotgun and unloading it in her niece’s face?_   That was a tough sell for him, even for a jealous woman. 

“Did Miss Stark know of your relationship with her aunt?”

The time they took to question Lysa Arryn gave Hardyng time to concoct a lie for this, although not a very good one.  “I came here grieving and Lysa was good enough to let me stay, believing I should not be alone at a time like this and I equally felt she should not be on her own once she came back from the hospital last night.”

It was the story they would both tell for all eternity and it served no purpose to tear it down at the moment.  Stannis would wait until he could work out a theory of exactly what happened and when.  “I have no further questions for you at this time.  DS Seaworth, do you have anything you’d like to ask?” 

“No, Sir.” Seaworth replied and Stannis was glad he didn’t pursue any theories.  He usually held back and discussed them first unless he thought a suspect was going to get away. 

Some color returned to Hardyng’s face and that irritated Stannis although he couldn’t particularly decide why since he put both Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn high on his list of suspects above Harrold Hardyng.  “Don’t leave the city until we tell you we are finished with our inquiries.” 

The color drained again at the reminder that he could be in the hot seat again.

The remainder of the day was spent reviewing the various bank statements that had arrived and making calls to the police in Harrenhal to verify what he already suspected about Hardyng.  He was told Hardyng’s record contained arrests for passing bad checks and one criminal complaint that was unproved accusing him of stealing jewels while at a party.  They had no one clear suspect and he had hoped for better news when he called Robert before he left the station. 

At home, he showered, changed into pajamas and tried to sleep but all he could see was the portrait of Sansa Stark.  He realized he was at least somewhat fortunate that he wasn’t seeing her face after the shotgun blast except when he thought about it.  Sleep wasn’t coming and he entertained the notion that he couldn’t get the portrait off his mind for a particular reason, like that it held a very important clue of some sort. 

It was a little after midnight when Stannis used the key obtained by the uniforms from the landlord to let himself back into Sansa Stark’s apartment.  Turning on one lamp, he sat in the semi darkness starting at her portrait.  _Why did you leave home and surround yourself with such insipid people?_   Her portrait gazed back at him with those seemingly innocent, trusting Tully blue eyes.  It wouldn’t tell him who killed her and why.  It merely let him know that he wasn’t likely to forget her anytime soon . . . if ever.    


	4. Chapter 4

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

Stannis rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off whatever was going on with him. He needed to focus . . . to find some answers. Most of all, he needed to stop looking at Sansa Stark's portrait as if it could give those answers. Dead women don't talk; neither do their portraits. 

He began looking for other clues they might have missed. He started with her liquor cabinet because it the first thing that caught his eye. Having skimmed over the reports of its contents earlier in the day, the uniforms had types of liquor, but not brands. Davos probably had it in his book, but he wanted to see it for himself. As much as he would like to think Baelish was exaggerating his influence on Miss Stark, one look at the collection of bottles told him otherwise. Naive young ladies from the North didn't know to keep bottles of Macallan and Dalmore whiskey, Tanqueray and Bols Genever gin, Angostura bitters, or Wray and Nephew Braavosi Rum. He even spotted the handmade crystal of a Kors Vodka bottle. Whoever was responsible for the selection of spirits knew their liquor and obviously wanted only the very finest. Most of the bottles were unopened, as if they were there for show or to impress a visitor, yet not necessarily for personal consumption. 

Sansa Stark had a wealth that many would envy. Her bank records showed she had received monthly stipends from a trust fund. While not quite to the level of his own wealth, Stannis was surprised that she had not seemed to have more of the advantages of wealth that his review of her finances would indicate possible. _Why hadn’t she at least gone to a finishing school if not a university?_ She could have afforded one of the smaller penthouses in this part of King’s Landing had she not purchased the small cottage toward the end of Blackwater Bay.

As he moved into her bedroom, Stannis braced himself for a part of his job he enjoyed least . . . looking through people's personal possessions. Fortunately, as a DI, he could leave most, but not all, of that chore to Seaworth. Even reading reports about them felt like an invasion to some extent. At the moment, the idea of going through Sansa's belongings felt like a violation. She didn't deserve some stranger prying into her life, her secrets. Then again, she didn't deserve to be dead either and he was ready to do anything necessary to find her killer. 

Stannis started with the closet, immediately picking up on the smell of flowers as he opened the doors. It hit him; that was her perfume, probably a mix of whatever perfume she favored most and her own scent. The realization that this was how Sansa Stark smelled sent a strange chill up his spine. Again, Stannis could see more of the implied influence of Petyr Baelish. Fine tweed skirts and rather plain wool dresses made way for the more sophisticated, tailored dresses and evening gowns one could only find at the most exclusive Kings Landing couture houses. The gowns were simple and elegant, made of quality satins, silks, and velvets. The cut and colors were clearly chosen to favor Sansa's eyes and hair.

The expansive closet also had shelves that were filled with expensive shoes for day and evening, as well as fine leather handbags. Stannis began to open each one of them, finding them all empty. A look around the apartment the morning of the murder hadn't turned up any sign of a handbag and that bothered him. As a keen observer of all things human, Stannis knew no woman went about without at least some cash, a form of identity, and her keys. There was also the seemingly necessary compact and lipstick. Yet, nowhere could he find these things for Sansa Stark.

Another item he found exceedingly odd was a cheap Harband suitcase that had seen better days found on a bench next to the wall near the closet. He had barely glanced at it the previous day as he had known much less about Sansa Stark and it hadn’t made an impression on him them. It was merely something the uniforms would inventory and Davos would call his attention to there was something of note. Davos wouldn’t catch the subtlety of what was amiss here. This case was definitely not the kind of thing an elegant young lady like Sansa Stark would carry. The only reason he could imagine her keeping something like it would have been if it held sentimental value. Stannis opened the case and if the suitcase itself was a surprise, it was nothing compared to what he found inside. There were a couple of clean, but obviously inexpensive dresses; two plain white blouses; and a navy blue wool skirt with a sagging hem. The case also contained a pair of scuffed black heels that had seen better days. The contents were rounded out by a faded cotton nightgown, a pair of cheap stockings, and some undergarments best described as _practical_. In his wildest imagination, he couldn’t imagine Miss Stark wearing any of these items, much less keeping them. _What was he missing?_

Spurred on now by growing curiosity, Stannis began opening the chest of drawers. Inside he found carefully folded cashmere sweater sets and an assortment of evening bags, all of which were empty. Feeling heat rise in his cheeks, he opened drawers full of silk and lace lingerie and nightgowns, along with pair after pair of silk stockings. These were all items he could contemplate being the belongings of the Sansa Stark in the portrait . . . the Sansa Stark who died wearing a silk and lace peignoir.

Frustrated, Stannis closed the last drawer and moved to the dressing table. An antique oval mirror hung above the table, reflecting a sterling silver comb and brush set, an empty white china dish, and an assortment of bottles. Most of them were familiar and would no doubt be found on every wealthy and fashionable woman's dressing table . . . Chanel No. 5, Mitsouko, Shalimar. The familiar blue lid on the latter brought back memories of his mother's dressing table and for a moment he was tempted to remove the lid to see if the smell brought back memories. _Stay focused, Stannis!_ _This isn't some trip down memory lane._ This is a murder inquiry and his purpose here is to figure out why someone would kill this young lady. He did allow himself to open one of the bottles, the Apres L'ondee, as it held the least amount of contents and there was a full bottle of the perfume on the table as well. Immediately, his nose was filled with the scent he recognized from the closet. This was the fragrance she'd worn most . . . soft, clean, and smelling like flowers after a rain.

Angry with himself for being so sentimental, Stannis opened the one drawer underneath the top of the table. Inside he found a nail kit and a bottle of red nail lacquer. Pushed towards the back was a rather large white and gold box marked _Jean Patou_. Inside the box was a bottle of a perfume called Joy, said to be the costliest scent in the world. Whoever bought this bottle would have spent a small fortune, which made it being shoved to the back of a drawer and left unopened to be an unexpected turn-up. Underneath the box was a gift card. Taking the card out, Stannis read the bold handwriting in black ink: _Only the finest for my sweetling. Love, Petyr_. Stannis' jaw clenched so tight, he thought it might shatter. It was no surprise that Baelish would try to buy her with such an intimate, not to mention expensive, gift. Baelish wouldn’t have cared whether it was what she wanted or preferred; only that it was expensive and that everyone knew it was from him. Stannis was oddly proud of her obvious defiance in sticking it in a drawer, out of sight and forgotten. 

Moving on with his search, Stannis looked inside the bathroom to find it void of any clues or insights. Not only could he not find Sansa's handbag, he could find no overnight or cosmetics case either. Surely if she were leaving to spend a few days at her cottage, she would have packed them. The only ladies these days who didn’t have those square overnight cases that were more often used as makeup cases were those who never traveled or those of modest means. 

Frustrated, Stannis got down on his hands and knees to look under the bed. Just as he'd expected, he found nothing. But then something caught his eye. Something, possibly a book, had fallen off the nightstand and was wedged between it and the bedframe. Reaching back around the nightstand to pull it free, he stood and examined it underneath the lamplight. What he saw made him catch his breath. 

Far more excited than he cared to admit, Stannis took the leather-bound diary and made his way back to the drawing room. Sitting down in the same wingback chair he'd sat in to stare at Sansa's portrait, he paused for a moment. Going through someone's personal possessions was one thing. Going through someone's private thoughts and feelings were quite another. It didn't seem right that the young woman lose all privacy and dignity. She'd already lost her life. Nevertheless, there could be clues here, clues that could lead him to her killer.

The first thing he noticed was that Miss Stark wrote an elegant hand . . . feminine, but strong and steady. He wondered briefly if the diary had been a gift or something she bought herself to document her new life. The first entry started with her arrival in Kings Landing.

> King’s Landing is a bit intimidating with all the people, buildings, and pavement. Robb says I will be home in less than a fortnight. I am determined to prove him wrong. I called Myrcella to ask if she wanted to meet for lunch. She was having her hair done and invited me to join her and Uncle Robert for dinner at his brownstone instead. I learned Uncle Robert and Mrs. Baratheon are divorced. Myrcella confided she is much happier not hearing the fighting. Mrs. Baratheon, Joffrey, and Tommen are now living in Lannisport. I am alarmed at how ill Uncle Robert looks. He is a few years younger than Father would have been and yet I cannot imagine Father would have changed that much in seven years. Perhaps it is the weight that makes him look so, yet I am also worried that he drinks too much. He does not like to talk about Father or hear Father talked about, changing the subject every time I mentioned him. I hoped it would be otherwise.

Reports indicated that Sansa was twenty-two, so given the date, she would have been twenty when she arrived at King’s Landing; his memory of her arriving about two years ago had been correct. Stannis also remembered that Ned and Catelyn were married as teenagers. Ned did not go to university as Robert, Renly, and he did. He learned the Stark lumber business from his father and had a wife and two children by the time he was twenty-two. Robert and Ned met in boarding school and stayed friends despite traveling different paths when Ned went back to Winterfell permanently to finish school there in his late teens. 

> Uncle Robert invited me to stay at the brownstone until I found an apartment. Myrcella is staying there until a week before she returns to university. I find it interesting that my aunt did not invite me to stay with her while my god-father did. It will be tempting to merely have fun with Myrcella for several days and not start what I came here to do right away, but I must contact Mrs. Redfort tomorrow.

Skimming ahead, he noted that Mrs. Redfort was the administrator of the King’s Landing Home for Orphans. Miss Stark seems to have started there as a volunteer. From her entries, she sounded very happy working with the children there. It also appeared that she was contended with her first apartment and found great happiness in little things like finding a lamp with the exact shade she wanted. 

> I had dinner with Uncle Robert and Myrcella at The Crimson Room. I only had my forest green evening gown to wear to such a place and it was nice to finally wear it although it paled in comparison to Myrcella’s burgundy sequined gown. Uncle Robert seemed so proud to have us with him. I met Petyr Baelish, the columnist, and learned he is an old friend of Mother’s. I had no idea. Myrcella was quite impressed at meeting him and when she politely told him she read his column regularly, I found his reply of “Of course you do” rather rude. Myrcella claimed he is famous for such wit and having it directed at her would be something to tell her friends. There is something about that I have yet to understand. 

Stannis wondered how long it took her to buy into the notion that Baelish’s rudeness as supposed to be thought of as wit. 

> I met Mr. Baelish for lunch at a downtown café. For the first few minutes, I found his biting wit excessively rude as he made unflattering observations about others in the café. He did not stop and I realized that I was becoming immune to it, despite not approving. I managed to divert him into telling me about my mother and her childhood. It was obvious that Mr. Baelish had great affection for Mother and was more than a little resentful of Father. I politely told him if he continued to make disparaging remarks about my Father, I was leaving. He was annoyed, but he conceded to my wishes. After lunch, he requested we take a walk and it ended at Madame Bouvier’s. At first, I could not believe the arrogance of marching someone to a dressmaker and blatantly telling them their clothes were too ordinary. He did make a persuasive argument that I would be more beneficial to the orphanage were I to work as a fundraiser within society and to do so, I must dress for society. I must admit I enjoyed trying on the dresses he selected. I bought one evening gown that is being taken in at the waist and requiring a few other adjustments. Mr. Baelish wanted to buy it for me but I will have none of that. 

_And so it began_ , Stannis thought. He closely skimmed pages of similar entries that told the tale of Baelish slowly, but surely worming his way into her life and escorting her to functions where she met both old and new money in King’s Landing. He observed the point at which she stopped referring to him as Mr. Baelish and began writing his given name instead. It occurred shortly after his insistence that she have a portrait painted. 

> Uncle Robert was at Aunt Lysa’s party tonight to raise money for families of military who lost their lives in the Iron Islands Uprising. He did not seem pleased to see me there with Petyr as my escort. I tried to explain that Petyr’s contacts and influence were invaluable in my arranging fundraisers such as this and that charities were now seeking Aunt Lysa to host the events while I encourage donations. Uncle Robert is not satisfied and says Petyr’s motives are always self-serving. 

_Good for Robert._ Stannis would like to say he should have done more to protect her, yet he knew there was not much he could have done if she truly felt Baelish was of benefit to her and what she wished to accomplish. If it weren’t for Baelish, there was no indication from her diary that her aunt meant to introduce her to high society, although it was obvious she saw the advantages after Baelish began the effort. If Baelish wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, and he hadn’t discounted that notion, he was responsible for introducing her into a world where this could happen to such an innocent. Even if the murderer turned out to be Hardyng or Lysa Arryn, Baelish was still responsible for her putting her in the middle of their orbit. Mrs. Arryn was content to ignore her niece until Baelish made her someone for which society would take notice. 

As he moved on in the dairy, he saw Sansa Stark go from girl to woman, and her fortunes rise. Charities began to pay her a small percentage of what she brought in for them, much of which she seemed to donate to a charity not prospering at the time. He saw traces of Baelish’s influence in her remarks regarding certain people. Admittedly, they were people Stannis knew and would have found himself less charitable toward. She still seemed to maintain a sensitivity toward others that Baelish would not have encouraged. 

> I met a man at Aunt Lysa’s from Harrenhal. He is both handsome and charming, and quite a good dance partner. Ramsay Bolton and Joffrey Baratheon are both evidence that having a handsome face is no great recommendation. I still grieve for Jeyne at having married Ramsay. However, Harry Hardyng does seem to be a pleasant man. I believe he has fallen on hard times and is receiving financial assistance from my aunt. Petry is convinced of it and made some callous implications about their relationship. It is possible my aunt and he are in a romantic relationship, yet it seems strange to me. If it were true, Aunt Lysa would surely be more disapproving of his blatant flirting.

If Stannis were prone to drinking, he would definitely want one now. It was a shame to see her head turned by such a milksop. Truth be told, he could more easily understand Baelish being able to entice her by dangling the carrots of high society, but all he could see Hardyng offering was a square jaw and, in seems, a pleasant turn on the dance floor . . . as well as a guarantee that he would drain her trust fund before he moved on to the next rich woman. _Where was Robb Stark in all this?_ There were occasional mentions of telephoning her older brother to be told he was traveling for business. There was also another nagging question. _Why would Lysa Arryn purposely introduce such a man to her attractive niece with a trust fund for him to pilfer if she wanted to keep him for herself?_ Stannis struggled with the notion he was missing a very important dynamic in that whole scenario. 

He couldn’t help but ponder what his nephew had done to warrant a mention in her diary as one for whom it was evident a handsome face was not a recommendation. He had no idea who Ramsay Bolton or his wife, Jeyne, were. Probably acquaintances from the North. 

> The tenements owned by Walder Frey are appalling. I worked with a dedicated crew to clean up ones inhabited by mothers with children. To know that children live in such filth is heartbreaking. The smell is so horrible, I had to dab the scarf I meant to tie my hair back with perfume and tie it around my face so that I had a stronger smell of Apres L'ondee than of rat and human excrement. Mr. Vance says that the inhabitants have long grown immune to the smell. That may be true, but I could not imagine growing immune to the flies and insects. I am very happy with the work we accomplished in a few days. It did not make the building what I hoped for these children, but it is a vast improvement. Petyr laughed at our efforts and insists the most likely outcome is that we raised the property value and Frey would kick out all the tenants and get newer ones at a higher rent. There are times when I despise Petyr’s jaded outlook on life. 

Stannis read on, each page increasing his sense of unease and dread as she makes her way toward her last night. Sometimes he would look up at Sansa Stark’s portrait after reading an entry where she should have realized the folly of allowing Hardyng’s attentions or Baelish’s influence, or even her aunt’s obvious using of her to attract more to her circle by attaching herself to the latest star on the social horizon . . . it made him angry.

> Petyr was right. Harry and Aunt Lysa are having an affair. Oddly, I am not upset by it and I should be. I should be crying and I cannot even say I am sad. If anything, I am relieved that I now have a valid reason to break the engagement. I will avoid telling Petyr for as long as possible. His preening will be insufferable. Were that all of it, it would be easy to bear. This possessive nature of Petyr’s was there before I met Harry; I just tried to ignore it. He has accused me of mistaking youth and a strong body as worth. I have deliberately blinded myself to Petyr’s motives and what his intentions for our friendship really are. It is not his age that makes me unable to consider him as a suitor. It is his disposition. He sees himself as superior to everyone. I do not think him capable of real love, only possession. I need to go to the cottage and figure out how to untangle the mess I have allowed myself to get into. 

Just as he was closing the diary, he noticed something on the lower left-hand corner of the flyleaf that was of interest. In her handwriting, but in smaller print, were the words: _The worst day of my life is now safe_. For a moment, Stannis could only blink and deepen his scowl. _What was that supposed to mean?_ He assumed the worst day of her life was the day her parents died, but he had no idea how that was now safe. _How could someone make a day safe?_ _Did she have some reason for fear that she was trying to convince herself she was safe from?_

After another few minutes of looking at it too literally, it hit him. Yes, Miss Stark would have a safe in this apartment. They would be fairly standard in a luxury apartment and this could qualify, although it lacked a doorman. Davos had noted the lack of any valuable jewelry. It was possible a well-hidden safe was missed by the uniforms. Stannis began looking behind artwork and found nothing. Of course, that was the obvious place to look . . . too obvious. He had to concede it could be easily missed when he did finally find it. There was a bookcase in her bedroom that stood about six feet high and two feet wide. It was mixed with clusters of hardback books, ornamental figurines, and other decorative items. However, there was one cluster of books that, upon closer inspection wasn’t that at all. The book covers were actual book spines put together on the front of a wooden box that was discretely hinged on one side and painted at the top and sides to resemble books if you didn’t get too close. When the hinged door was pulled back, it revealed a small, metal safe with a combination lock. Given the clue, the combination was easy. Dates were something he remembered, especially when he had just read them earlier that day. Stannis dialed in the date of her parents’ accident and the safe opened. 

The compact safe was neat and orderly. Most of her important financial paperwork would no doubt be with her lawyer or financial planner, maybe even in a safe deposit box. What Stannis found were possessions obviously too valuable to leave lying around, yet wanted to keep close to her. There was a passport with no stamp in it, although it had been taken out within six months of her arrival at King’s Landing. A thick brown envelope turned up a surprising amount of cash. Stopping to count it out, it was more than five thousand dollars, mostly in hundred dollar bills. That was not necessarily strange; nevertheless, it was not what he was expecting. 

Stannis then moved on to the various pouches and jewel boxes. Going through each one he realized these were the bulk, if not the entirety, of the Stark and Tully family jewels. Strands of pearls of various lengths, all of perfect quality and cream color. A very large diamond necklace with a huge center stone and then clusters of smaller stones set all around in an intricate design. Diamond studs that were easily three carats each. Various diamond, ruby, and emerald bracelets. A large emerald pendant hanging from a fine gold chain. Several brooches, including one Cartier brooch crafted in the shape of a golden peacock with emeralds and sapphires for its feathers. A petite Cartier evening watch with diamonds around the face and another with diamonds and a black velvet band. Ring boxes revealed an assortment of gems in expensive settings, including what must have been either her mother's or grandmother's engagement ring and wedding band. The last item of note was an aquamarine necklace and earrings that were obviously of a set with the ring in her portrait . . . the ring that was not anywhere in this safe. 

Shutting the safe again and ensuring the book tableau looked as it had before he disturbed it, Stannis realized something else that was missing from the apartment. The jewelry Sansa Stark would have worn every day. Besides what he'd just found in the safe, there was not so much as a pair of earrings to be found anywhere and none had been found on the body. He had nothing to go by that she did, indeed, wear some form of jewelry every day. If he were a gambler, he’d place a large sum on it that she did.

Deciding to give up for the night, Stannis took one more look at the portrait of Sansa Stark before he closed the door behind him. In the absence of any other evidence, he was convinced one of them killed her . . . Baelish, Hardyng, or Lysa Arryn. The question was which one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many and can I say it one more time . . . MANY thanks to Tommyginger for descriptions of clothes, jewelry, perfumes, and even expensive liquors of the 40s that she wrote out for me.


	5. Chapter 5

King’s Landing, 1940  
Davos Seaworth

 

Davos was beginning to wonder when his DI was going to sleep whatever amounted to a full night for him again.  He had long given up trying to beat Baratheon to the station in the morning.  The best he could often do was hope he wasn’t keeping him waiting too long.  Today, he arrived at six to find DI Baratheon hunched over his wooden desk looking over reports. 

There was no _good morning_ or _hello_.  “There were a lot of valuables in plain sight in that apartment, yet the only thing of value that looks like it might have been taken is the ring she was wearing in the portrait and her purse.  I found a hidden safe and was able to open it last night . . . “

“Last night?” Davos cut in, and while not surprised, he was a bit miffed that Baratheon went back to look for additional clues without him.  Davos prided himself on the notes he took at a crime scene over and above the inventories made by uniforms.  Surely another visit to the scene could have waited until this morning when he could have joined him and they could have gone over it together. 

“Yes,” Baratheon growled back without looking up.  “The ring was not in the safe with her jewelry.  I also found something else I can’t explain to my satisfaction.  Both Hardyng and her aunt claim she was leaving to go to her cottage that day and there was a suitcase in the bedroom that was packed.”

“I remember it,” Davos responded.  He had looked it over and found a woman’s clothes, all itemized in his book in case the uniforms weren’t that thorough, but he found nothing else other than clothes and shoes. 

“Miss Stark’s closet contained a small wardrobe of clothes I believe came with her from Winterfell.  They were good quality, just not particularly stylish as King’s Landing standards go.  The majority of her wardrobe was an upgrade with high-end fashions tailored for her.  The clothes in that suitcase, a suitcase I found strange in its age and cheapness, were bargain basement.  They were cheaply made of inexpensive materials.”

Davos ponded this information, finally sitting at his desk across from his DI.  “So what are you saying?  That she had a double life?  Socialite in the city, country girl at the cottage?  Was she trying to not be known as a socialite when at her cottage?”

“No. Any neighbors she might encounter in that part of Blackwater Bay would be well-heeled too, and most of those cottages are situated to be secluded so neighbors really wouldn’t be a concern.  I read her diary.  If there was one thing she did truly acquiesce to in the high society life Baelish led her into, it was the clothes.  Miss Stark seems to have enjoyed a few other upgrades to her lifestyle, but for the most part, she wasn’t always impressed with all high society offered.  She recognized the shallow and the selfish, and it didn’t seem she had become a totally jaded member.” 

As soon as Davos recovered from the idea of Baratheon purposely reading a young girl’s diary, it occurred to him that he sounded as though he was defending Sansa Stark in some way.  The idea made no sense because Davos was the only one there and he wasn’t attacking her character.  Certainly Baratheon took the character of a victim into consideration and studied him or her, as well as all the acquaintances and influences he could find, to look at relationships.  He was good at it; it was one of the things that made him a great detective rather than just a good one.  However, his exploration of Sansa Stark was different.  As his sergeant, Davos would usually be the one reading a diary with the job of giving him a synopsis or picking out more for areas for him to read more carefully.  With a sergeant he didn’t trust, Baratheon would personally comb through the diary.  Davos thought he had earned more respect from Baratheon than that.  In the three years he had worked with him, he’d never known Baratheon to go back to a crime alone late at night.  _Where the hell did he find the diary and the safe anyway?_   All Davos could think was that his brother being best friends with the deceased’s father made this case more personal. 

Baratheon let out a deep sigh, rubbing his forehead.  “Her diary stops two nights before she died.  She didn’t seem to fear or suspect anyone of harming her, but she had changed her mind about marrying Hardyng.  I don’t know if she found Hardyng with Lysa Arryn or found evidence that convinced her they were sleeping together.  She also implied she needed to put distance between herself and Baelish.”

Not having seen this diary yet, Davos couldn’t help a niggling notion that the business about Miss Stark pulling away from Baelish might be as much Baratheon’s wishful thinking as actual fact.  “That cements Hardyng having a motive since this wasn’t some little tiff he could easily get back into her good graces over.  But Hardyng doesn’t strike me as a guy who could stomach filling a girl’s face full of buckshot at close range.  The shot to the face may not have been intentional. Recoil could have made it go higher than he was aiming.”

For the first time that morning, Baratheon looked up at him.  “It was dark.  He could have just made the shot without aiming, but there’s another problem.  Miss Stark found out about her aunt and Hardyng before that night . . . who was in her bed?”

“Baelish?”

Davos really wished he hadn’t said it, even if he was thinking it.  Baratheon’s jaw clenched and he could hear the teeth grinding.  This was nothing new except that it was new as a reaction to this sort of speculation about a victim.  Baratheon recovered quickly, although the current scowl was one of confusion.  “That was one thing that was interesting about her diary.   Wouldn’t you suppose a woman who is sexually . . . who is having a sexual relationship with a man might write about it in her diary, especially the first time?”

That was a very good assumption, if she did indeed believe it to be a private diary.  “So no entries in the diary about sleeping with Baelish?”

“No entries in the diary about Baelish or Hardyng either in that respect,” Baratheon replied.  “Given Hardyng’s insecurities, it would make sense that he was still sleeping with Mrs. Arryn and anyone else he could manage to charm into a bed since she wasn’t having him until marriage.  Baelish, on the other hand, would be more interested in no one else having her rather than making a great effort to have her to himself sexually.” 

Davos definitely thought rich people were a mysterious breed while admitting he had a lot to learn about investigating cases that involve them.  He would have found the lack of a suitcase suspicious given what they had heard about Sansa Stark’s plans, but he would have missed that the clothes weren’t right for her.  This sort of thing was the very reason he wanted to work with DI Baratheon.   

Looking at his watch, he had to change the subject or they would be late.  "We'd better get a move on if we're going to go uptown to the crime scene. Miss Stark's housekeeper is meeting us there in twenty minutes. With morning traffic, we'll barely make it.”

In the car, Baratheon went into a bit more detail about finding the safe based on a clue in the diary.  Another new wrinkle was that his superior was decidedly uncomfortable when Davos mentioned he should read the diary as well.  If it were one of the other detective inspectors, Davos would say it was arrogance in thinking if he’d read it, there was nothing a sergeant could add by doing so.  While Baratheon had more right to make that claim than anyone else, he normally wanted his sergeant well informed in all aspects of the case and able to discuss theories, motives, and opportunities.  Baratheon’s request for more information about the housekeeper was a deliberate effort to change the subject. 

“Nan Marsh, sixty-nine, a widow, lives west of the base of Visenya's Hill,” Davos reported.   “She started working as a housekeeper for Miss Stark just after she moved in.”

Mrs. March had coffee made when they arrived at the apartment.  “Miz Stark wouldn’t like it if she ‘ad a guest in her apartment and there was nuthin’ to offer ‘em.  She made better coffee than I do.”  The grizzle-haired old matron’s hands shook as she filled coffee cups, put them on saucers, and handed one to each of them.  Davos couldn’t remember DI Baratheon ever accepting so  much as a glass of water, but he took the coffee and muttered a quick thanks.   

“Please sit down, Mrs. March,” DI Baratheon offered in a voice gentler than any he had ever heard him use.  “Miss Stark would not want us to keep you on your feet while we speak with you.” 

Tears welled up in eyes that were already red from crying.  “Miz Stark always made me sit down a few times during the day when I was ‘ere to clean for ‘er.   She paid me as if I worked for ‘er five days a week instead of two.  Insisted on it.  I’d been let go at two jobs due to my age so I couldn’t afford to be proud.  I did the best by her my body was able to, I did.  She ‘ad such a good ‘art.  Sometimes when she was here and I was cleaning, she would put on a pair a gloves and clean wid me.  Then she’d make me sit and ‘ave coffee with ‘er because we was finished so fast.”  Sobbing started in earnest and both Baratheon and he sipped coffee and tried to wait for her to compose herself.

“When did you last see Miss Stark?” Davos asked.

Sniffling, “I saw ‘er two days ‘fore she di . . . ‘fore.  Yesterday woulda been my day to work.” 

“Mrs. March, what can you tell me about her relationship with Mr. Harrold Hardyng?”  Baratheon interjected to take over the questioning.  Davos could see he had no intention of wasting time in seeking answers to his questions about whether Miss Stark and Hardyng were physically intimate or not. 

It took no stretch of the imagination to describe the old woman’s look as one of pure loathing.  “That man weren’t worthy a ‘er and I tole her so!  Can’t say it for certain, but I think he was carryin’ on wid Miz Arryn.” 

If Davos caught that the word “too” was missing at the end of that sentence, so did Baratheon, but he didn’t pursue it, which was a surprise.   “How long were you here before we arrived?” was his next question. 

“Just got ‘ere and put on the coffee,” came the woman’s answer, ending with more sniffling and a cough to clear her throat. 

“May I ask you to let us follow you around the apartment and tell me if you see anything out of place or unusual?”

Rather than answer DI Baratheon’s request, she slowly rose from the wing-back chair and began looking around the drawing room.  “Things are as straight and neat as normal, such as the magazines on the end table and figurines on the shelves.”

“I apologize, Mrs. March.  The police took notes and inventories, and they were not diligent about replacing items exactly as they were.  However, they should be close.  I’m asking for anything odd or something that shouldn’t be there at all . . . perhaps something inordinately out of place.”  Baratheon explained.  Davos had never heard him make such an effort to be polite. 

The woman made an effort to look at every surface in the drawing room and pronounced it near normal.  She would not look at or mention the blood stains still left on the carpet. 

Next, they went into a guest bedroom.  This room was in pristine condition on the night of the murder.  Davos had never seen a bedroom with a dresser and chest where all the drawers were completely empty, as was the closet.  Trinkets and pictures in small frames were used as decorations and art work hung on the walls.  Mrs. Marsh proclaimed the room to be similar to what she expected.  Similarly, she inspected the guest bathroom and found nothing amiss. 

Baratheon let her dictate the order the rooms were entered for her inspection.  Davos could tell he was far more alert when the woman led them into the master suite.  In less than a second, Mrs. March audibly sucked in her breath and her eyes flew wide.  “This is wrong!” she cried out.  “I ain’ never seen Miz Stark’s bed look like that.  She never left it in such a mess.” 

“Miss Stark was in bed when she answered the doorbell, Mrs. Marsh.  The bed would be expected to look slept in.” Baratheon laid out carefully.  “Have you ever seen a bed after she’s been in it before it is made?”

“I get ‘ere early on my days before she gets up and I ‘ave a good breakfast for ‘er.   I strip the sheets and change ‘em while she’s eatin’.” 

Baratheon now wore his smiling scowl.  “What is so out of place about the bed from your point of view, Mrs. Marsh.”

The woman walked up to the bed.  “She always slept on the left side and the right side was always untouched save for the blankets being tugged toward her a little.  In all the time I’ve worked for ‘er, changin’ ‘er sheets twice a week, she ain never had the bed this mussed up like.”   

“Thank you, Mrs. March,” Baratheon replied and if Nan March knew him better, she would know his tone was a reward for a job well done.  “Would you be so kind as to continue.” 

She inspected the dresser, chest, and dressing table, halting again when she got to the bench with the suitcase.  “Whose is that?”

“Miss Stark was going to her cottage.  Is that not her suitcase?”

“No!” Nan March cried out as if he’s slapped her.  “Miz Stark wouldn’t carry sumpthin’ like that!”

Baratheon came alongside her and opened the suitcase.  “Do you recognize the contents?”

Davos would describe the woman’s face now as being truly horrified as she looked at the contents.  She picked up a white blouse and held it to her nose, then practically threw it back into the suitcase as if it were on fire.  “That’s not her clothes.  I can tell you by the look of ‘em that if it was sumptin' she wore back where she came from, there’s nuthin’ there she’d wear now.  Plus, nuthin’ there smells like ‘er.” 

Taking notes furiously, Davos tried to take in what this meant.  They’d seen the body.  Granted, there was no face but it was the right size, the right hair, her nails were manicured.   He had no idea what this suitcase and its contents meant.  If another woman had been in the apartment with her, why would she run and not be the one to call the police.  More importantly, why not sleep in the guest room? 

Mrs. Marsh nearly fainted when she saw the toilet seat up in the master bath.  “I’d a said she ‘ad company from up North, ‘er sister or a lady friend, that she was lettin’ sleep in ‘er bed til I saw that toilet seat.  Miz Stark didn’t . . . she just didn’t!  Miz Stark was a lady an she weren’t gonna do that til she was married!” 

“We’re trying to figure it all out, Mrs. Marsh,” Davos interjected, having been silent for a long time. 

The woman’s brow suddenly furrowed as she looked at him and then back at Baratheon.  “You said she answered the door.  What time did this ‘appen?”

“About midnight,” Baratheon supplied.  Both of them were curious where this was going. 

“That’s not right,” Mrs. Marsh informed them adamantly.  “Miz Stark was never in bed ‘fore midnight unless she was sick.  She’d read in the drawing room and listen to music until she got sleepy.  Tole me once that layin’ in bed when she weren’t sleepy made it hard for ‘er to fall asleep at all.” 

Without allowing for another question, Mrs. Marsh made her way to the kitchen and they followed.  She opened and closed cupboards and inspected, starting with the food.  It was the cupboard with a series of crystal, from stemmed wine goblets to various highball sizes, that made her stop.  She picked up two whiskey glasses and inspected.  “These two are dirty.  Miz Stark would never put a dirty glass back in ‘ere.” 

“Did she leave dishes during the week for you to wash on your workdays?” Davos inquired, only to receive a glare. 

“Miz Stark washed ‘er dishes, dried ‘em, and then she put ‘em away.  She was very clean and particular.”

Baratheon took the crystal highball glass from her and examined them, holding one up to his nose so that he could smell inside it.  “You are right, Mrs. Marsh.  This one had bourbon in it and wasn’t washed out.  We will need to take them as evidence.” 

They were about to bring her back into the drawing room when they heard someone outside the front door using a key in the lock.  Baratheon instinctively put himself in front of Mrs. Marsh.  The door unlocked, opened, and in came Lysa Arryn and Harrold Hardyng as if it were in their home. 

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Arryn stormed, decidedly unhappy to see them again.  Hardyng simply looked terrified, but at least both were dressed for public viewing now, her with her expensive suit and him in a tan, nondescript suit.  Davos may not be able to tell as much about women’s fashions as Baratheon, but he could tell that Hardyng was wearing a cheap suit. 

“This is still a crime scene and until the will has been read, it is the property of the estate of Miss Stark and you are trespassing,” Baratheon announced, his voice changing from the gentle, well-manner tone he’d used with Mrs. Marsh to a menacing growl. 

Hardyng held up a key.  “Sansa gave this to Lysa.”

DI Baratheon walked closer to him and Hardyng actually took a step back.  Before he could reply with what undoubtedly would have been some element of the law that advised Hardyng, key or not, they could no longer use it, in walked Petyr Baelish.  “A party and I wasn’t invited,” he remarked drolly.  “I should feel slighted!”

Now, Baratheon was practically vibrating with anger.  “One at a time, what are you doing here?”

“Let’s start with what you are doing here, Detective,” Baelish quipped, walking further into the room in his black silk suit and crisp white shirt.  “I drove by late last night on my way back from the symphony and saw your black Buick Century parked in the firelane, at least I assume it was yours.  Only policemen park there without being towed, yet it wasn’t one of the black Chevrolets from the motor pool such as what is parked there now.  Tell me, Baratheon, are you planning to pay rent?”

Baratheon glared at him, but didn’t bother to join in the game of who could outwit whom.  “Why are you here, Baelish?”

“I’m here to pick up a few of my belongings that I loaned to Sansa before they are confused as part of the estate.”  Baelish looked around the room.  “That onyx figurine, a few of the books,  the clock, and the portrait.” 

Hardyng balled his hands into fists, keeping them at his sides.  “Those things aren’t yours any longer.  You gave them to Sansa!”

Baelish looked over his shoulder, giving Hardyng a brief, dismissive look.  “The person this involves the least is you, Hardyng.”

“What makes the portrait yours?” Baratheon demanded, his tone still ominous.  “Miss Stark paid for it herself.”  That was not the question Davos expected. 

“And how do you know this?” Baelish challenged back with a raised eyebrow.  Davos could only guess it was from some information found in the diary he had yet to see.   

“In a way I can prove that doesn’t involve you in the least.” 

Davos expected Baratheon to ask him if he had a key.   Baelish did say he knew police were here; perhaps he assumed he would be let in and allowed to do as he pleased.  Instead, Baratheon turned his attention to Mrs. Arryn.  “And you, Mrs. Arryn.  Why are you and Mr. Hardyng here?” 

“To  . . . to . . . to just be where she was last.  I asked Harry to bring me here to see if it would help me get over the other night,” Mrs. Arryn stammered.  “I thought it might be helpful to be here where we were surrounded by her things.” 

Davos was very interested in what Baratheon thought was the real purpose of their visit.  For right now, he was chalking it up to Hardyng wanting to find things he could sell and Lysa Arryn going along with it.  They would find out later in the day with a call to the Stark family solicitor what her will contained.  If she had changed it to give Hardyng everything, that certainly would be a motive . . . especially if she had dumped him.” 

“All three of you need to leave, without taking anything with you.  I warn you now that if anything is removed before the will is read and new ownership is established, I will arrest one or all three of you.”  It was a standard Baratheon speech, complete with scowls and graveled voice. 

It was Baelish’s turn to give Baratheon a menacing look and Davos had to hand it to him; he had a winner.  It was unquestionably menacing yet it was in the form of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  The smile held a considerable amount of derision.  “We will see, Detective.  I have my chauffeur waiting outside for me.  Good-day.” 

With that, Petyr Baelish turned and strode past Mrs. Arryn and Hardyng as if they weren’t there.  Mrs. Arryn glanced around as if trying to figure out what to do.  “Come on, Lysa,” Hardyng prompted.  It was obvious he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

“Was it us or was it the place?” Davos pondered sarcastically after they were on the other side of the front door. 

“Us,” Baratheon answered before turning to Mrs. Marsh and removing his wallet from his jacket pocket.  “We will wash the coffee cups and put them away properly, Mrs. Marsh.”  He handed her a few bills from his wallet.  “Please take a cab home rather than the bus.  The King’s Landing Police Department, DS Seaworth, and I are grateful for your time.”

She looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow.  “Miz Stark always sent me ‘ome in a cab.  I am gonna miss ‘er so!”

Baratheon started to escort her toward the door, patiently slowing his normally quick gait down to accommodate her.  Just before he opened the door for her, he evidently thought of one last question.  “Mrs. Marsh, did Miss Stark usually wear some form of jewelry every day . . . something that we would have found lying around had she taken it off or in her bedroom on her dressing table?”

The old woman didn’t hesitate.  “She always wore pearls unless she was puttin’ sumpthin’ else ‘round ‘er neck, a white gold watch, and the blue oval ring in ‘er portrait.  Only thing that’d a been different day in or day out was the earrings she wore.  All a them would a been on her dressin’ table on the ‘er little dish unless on ‘er.”       

“Thank you again, Mrs. Marsh. “  Baratheon eventually closed the door after her, running a frustrated hand through his hair once he turned around and walked back toward the fireplace, looking up at the portrait again.    

Closing his black notebook and putting it in his pocket, Davos collected the coffee cups, saucers, and spoons to take into the kitchen.  He wasn’t about to let his DI wash dishes while he watched and if Baratheon said they would be washed and put away, that was the plan. 

Baratheon had followed him into the kitchen.  “I can do those.”

Davos shrugged, turning on the water and pouring a little soap over the dishes, “I’ve already started.” 

“So what do we really have here now,” Baratheon got back to the case.  “We’ve got a dead Sansa Stark who we have it on good authority was probably not the person in that bed and would not have been in bed that time of night.  So what . . . she was sitting in her drawing room, possibly not having the radio on due to a sleeping guest or guests, wearing a peignoir that she didn’t mind the guest seeing.”

Davos began speculating.  “Was it a visitor from Winterfell?  A woman with clothes inferior to Miss Stark’s?”

“Possibly.  There are clothes for a woman.  The only evidence we have of the possible presence of a man is a raised toilet seat.”

“Which,” Davos cut in, “Marya would say was pretty good evidence of a male.  Her friend might have not been as refined as Miss Stark . . . or even my wife with her middle class background.  One of my sons leaves the seat up and there is hell to pay.  I haven’t been brave enough to do it in years.  Even if the woman got sick and raised that seat to keep from . . . well getting sick all over the seat . . . she still would have put it back down more often than not.”

Baratheon took up a dishtowel and dried what Davos finished washing and rinsing, putting the items up in the cupboard as he finished.  “Right now, the evidence leans heavily toward there being another woman in the house at the time of the murder.  She is so startled by what she sees, she runs without any of her belongings.  And she hasn’t come back for them.  Yet, it appears she took off with Miss Stark’s day-to-day jewelry since it isn’t on the dressing table.  This woman may or may not have had a man with her.  Two glasses were hastily put away dirty.  One could have been used by Miss Stark rather than a man.  However, the suitcase only had women’s clothes.” 

“Perhaps it was a couple and they both were so frightened, they ran and grabbed only one suitcase in the dark?  But that doesn’t explain stealing the jewelry if the murderer didn’t do it . . . unless one of them is the murderer.  If that’s the case, then why take the shot from the doorway?” 

“You heard the housekeeper,” Baratheon countered, “If Miss Stark was not sexually active, then does her wearing the peignoir without a robe with another man in the house and answering the door in it strike you as odd?”

Folding the towel and laying it on the counter while Davos rinsed the remaining suds from the sink without answering, Baratheon’s jaw clenched and the renowned teeth grinding started.  It continued while Davos secured the two highball glasses to take back to the station to log in as evidence and didn’t stop until they were back in the drawing room.  “There are too many options and nothing that fits together well,” Baratheon grumbled.  “There is just no clear picture of what happened here that night which means there is too much that we don’t know.” 

Back at the station, the autopsy report was waiting for them.  DI Baratheon eagerly picked it up and read . . . and then slammed it back on the desk, his frustration palpable.  Davos picked the report up and started reading.  It didn’t take long to find what had pressed his DI’s buttons.  Dr. Luwin reported that not only was Miss Stark no longer a virgin, but that she had had intercourse that night as there was semen present with no evidence of tearing or bruising that would indicate rape. 

Just when they thought they knew something definitive, it changed again . . . this case had become a whole lot more complicated. 


	6. Chapter 6

King’s Landing, 1940  
Myrcella Baratheon

 

“I’ll get it Mrs. Caswell,” Myrcella called out to the maid when she heard the doorbell.  As usual, Uncle Stannis was on time.  It wasn’t that he was never late.  It was that he would call if he was more than two minutes late for any reason.  Of course, she really couldn’t say that was a highly common practice for it was very seldom that he was a guest in her father’s house.  She knew of no great rift between them, but they were not particularly close.  Uncle Renly was over quite often seeking advice for the family business.  Myrcella suspected Uncle Renly consulted with Uncle Stannis even more. 

Opening the door, Myrcella was alarmed at how tired Uncle Stannis appeared.  He had the merest hint of a late evening stubble and was well-groomed in his immaculate black suit and fedora.  She often wondered if his appearance stood out in sharp contrast to the other detectives downtown.  At any rate, he didn’t look as bad as Papa with his two days of stubble and bloodshot eyes.  The distinction was more that Uncle Stannis’ eyes were half lidded and his usually rigid stance seemed slack, at least for him. 

“Please come in, Uncle,” Myrcella offered, moving to allow him room to enter.  He took off his hat and held it, not sure what to do without Mrs. Caswell to take it and no table in the foyer to sit it on.  “I’ll take that,” she offered, taking it from his hands.  She wished she felt comfortable standing on her tip toes and placing a kiss on his cheek as she often did to Uncle Renly.  It seemed a shame to her that she was incapable of doing such a simple gesture to an uncle. 

Myrcella resisted the urge to begin questioning him immediately, waiting until they were both up the stairs and in her father’s study.  The room was dark save the Tiffany lamp on the table next to her where her father was slumped in his heavily padded leather chair.  No words of greeting were exchanged between the brothers.  “Do you know who did it?” Papa blurted, getting straight to the point. 

Uncle Stannis sat across from him in one of the pair of Morris chairs while she took the other one at a slight angle from him.  She saw him look questioningly at the unopened bottle of bourbon on the table and the empty glass.  “No, Robert.  Not yet.  There are a lot of unanswered questions about that night.”  Myrcella wondered if her uncle was alarmed at seeing his brother sober, or if he even believed he was sober. 

“While it hasn’t been officially made known and won’t until Robb Stark arrives, “ Uncle Stannis said focusing on her, “I heard from the Stark family solicitor today and learned the contents of her Will.  What I can disclose is that her wardrobe is going to you, Myrcella.”  He turned back toward her father, “While I haven’t seen it, there is a picture album of Ned’s that has pictures of the two of you.  She bequeathed that to you.”

Tears filled her Papa’s eyes as he stared straight ahead, not looking at either of them.  “She brought it with her the first night she dined with us.”  Slowly, his eyes met hers.  “Remember?”

“I do, Papa.  We had such fun looking at those photos,”  Myrcella found her eyes welling.  “There were pictures of you as a young boy in the album, Uncle Stannis.”

She wasn’t sure what the closing of his eyes and intake of breath at that statement meant.  It would be no great surprise to think that her uncle did not like to hear of there being any picture of him, although pictures of him and his sergeant cropped up in the Herald when they were responsible for apprehending some murderer or other dangerous criminal. 

“Those pictures were all she had of Ned,” Papa supplied, his eyes vacant.  Myrcella had spent the better part of yesterday trying to convince him he wasn’t responsible for what had happened to Sansa.  She only wished she didn’t believe they could have done more even if she wasn’t sure what that would have been. 

“She wanted his watch and Robb wouldn’t let her have it,” Myrcella told her uncle.  Perhaps this feeling of looking for someone to blame was giving her the desire to vilify Robb.  “He claimed what belonged to a father should go to his son.  Everyone dotes on Robb.  I, for one, never believed he did right by Sansa.” 

“Was it Miss Stark’s choice not to go to university or a finishing school?” Uncle Stannis asked.  “Or was it her brother decision?”

Papa grunted to show his disapproval, although he left it to Myrcella to answer, “Robb wanted her to look after Arya after she was out of Sixth Form as Arya refused to go away to school.  Sansa did as he wished for several years until she finally put her foot down and came here.”

“I tried to talk him into letting her go to university,” Papa interjected.  “Like Myrcella, she had a razor sharp mind.  Where Myrcella excels at math and the sciences, Sansa’s forte was history and literature.  She could tell you all about all the Great Houses, their sigils, their histories.  She knew Baratheon history better than you and I, and it was drilled into us growing up.  And she could do things most girls with her wealth weren’t trained to do . . . Myrcella, remember the dinners she cooked on Mrs. Caswell’s nights off when she stayed here?” 

“Math and seeing only the best in people were her only blind spots,” Myrcella agreed sadly.  “She considered going to school once she got here to study business in the hopes of being a charity administrator.  Baelish stopped that, convincing her she could benefit many charities if she allowed him to show her how.  While I suspect his motives had more to do with tying her to him, he did prove right on that score.  Sansa had taken some worthwhile charities that were floundering and put them back on their feet with her fundraising. “

Myrcella considered that her uncle needed to know as much about Sansa as they could offer.  “Sansa left Winterfell because she was lonely and feeling she wasn’t living up to her potential, which to her would mean not being useful.  Robb was always traveling and Sansa did not understand why he had to travel so much when her father barely traveled at all.  She was always having to deal with Arya and running the house.  Then there was an incident with a boy she didn’t want to date and who, well, he made her life quite miserable telling lies about her.  Then she met the woman who runs King’s Landing’s home for orphans and knew what she wanted to do.  Sansa wanted to help people; to make a difference to those less fortunate.”

Uncle Stannis listened intently before reaching inside his jacket pocket and taking out a small notebook.   “Do you know more about this incident with a boy up North?”    

In some ways this felt like breaking a confidence.  Myrcella reminded herself that Sansa was no longer here and that she had no idea what would help Uncle Stannis.  “Just after she finished school, Robb brought a business partner to dinner with his son.  The son wouldn’t leave her alone, pestering her for dates and telling others the most atrocious lies afterward about them being lovers and . . . Sansa was quite hurt about it.  We mostly spoke about Robb suggesting a few dates would help smooth things over between the two companies.  She was furious.”

His jaw clenched while he made notes in his notebook.  He unclenched enough to ask, “Do you remember his name?” 

“I am sorry, Uncle Stannis.  I remember his last name started with a B.”  Myrcella tried to remember more.  “Her best friend in the town of Winterfell married him about a year ago and it distressed Sansa a great deal; however, I don’t believe she ever elaborated on why.  I remember her friend’s given name was Jeyne.”

Uncle Stannis wrote a few things down.  “I believe I know who you are talking about.  Does the name Ramsay Bolton sound familiar?”

“That’s it!” Myrcella exclaimed, glad to be relieved of trying to conjure the name.  “She hadn’t mentioned them in some time.”

Papa returned to the subject of Sansa’s will.  “If you can’t tell me specifics, can you please tell me she didn’t leave anything of great value to Lysa Arryn?” 

Uncle Stannis bit his lip briefly before answering.  “Tully family items; a few of value.”  He paused, giving something thought before he spoke again.  “Much of her estate is going to the charities she supported beyond personal bequests such as the ones to you.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence that Myrcella broke when she realized she hadn’t offered their guest any refreshment.   “I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner.  Would you like a glass of water with lemon?”

“Thank you, Myrcella,” Uncle Stannis replied.  “If it isn’t too much trouble.” 

“We will be having supper in an hour or so.  Please join us,” she further offered, knowing it was a pointless matter of being polite.  Uncle Stannis never stayed with them any longer than absolutely necessary. 

Taking a deep breath and letting it out, her uncle’s shoulders sagged a bit.  “That would be nice.”

This alarmed her; even Papa sat up and his brow furrowed.  “When did you last eat, Uncle?”

“I don’t remember,” was the response from a man she didn’t think capable of forgetting anything. 

Myrcella hurried down the stairs to the kitchen where she informed Mrs. Caswell there would be one more for dinner.  She always made far more than was necessary for one meal as Papa would always devour any leftovers.  Eager to get back upstairs to hear whatever her uncle had to report, she quickly took a glass from the cupboard, filled it, and added a few ice cubes.  “Do we have any lemons?”

“Sorry Miss.  I used the last for the lemon tarts and I didn’t know Mr. Stannis would be here,” Mrs. Caswell informed her. 

Running back up the stairs, Myrcella handed the glass of water to her uncle with a hasty apology that they were out of lemons.  He took it from her with a muttered thank you.  “I was telling your father that I need help from you both.  There is much that is confusing or from unreliable sources.”

“By unreliable, are you referring to handsome, charming, penniless Harry Hardyng?” Myrcella guessed, rolling her eyes. 

If she could ever say that her Uncle Stannis looked eager, this was it.  “Were you invited to attend their wedding?”

“Wedding?  She found herself engaged to him because he proposed publicly and she was so polite, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings or embarrass him.  There was no ring and she certainly would have told me if a date had been set.  We did not speak every week as we first did after her arrival at King’s Landing.  That was mostly due to my schedule at university conflicting with hers.  Still, I am positive she would have told me if they had set a date.  I most certainly would have sent Papa to her to put a stop to it if it had gotten that far.”  The thought of Sansa actually marrying Harry Hardyng was outrageous.  The thought of her marrying the man of her dreams, which Harry was not, after only a knowing him for two months was equally incomprehensible.   The two of them giggled about their dream weddings would be like and Sansa had hers planned in infinite detail.  The style of her wedding dress was the only thing Myrcella knew of having changed recently.   Then again, she would have said Sansa would never have accepted a proposal from a man she’d only known for ten days.  The brevity of Sansa’s acquaintance with Harry before accepting his proposal was a fact she kept from her father. 

“Why didn’t you tell me if you thought he was someone she shouldn’t marry?” Papa barked, clearly upset and glaring at her. 

Myrcella suddenly felt a twinge of fear for speaking out.  Yes, Uncle Stannis’ perception of the relationship needed to be corrected, yet her father was looking for someone to blame.  She couldn’t deny she was doing the same as well.  It frightened her to think her blasé attitude toward Harry could have been in some way responsible for what happened.  It was impossible to think Harry killed her however.  He fancied himself the lover and as a fighter, he couldn’t curl his fingers to make a fist much less pull the trigger of a shotgun.  “Papa, he is harmless.  What I hoped for was a brief engagement that got her away from Mr. Baelish.  I can’t believe I was impressed when we first met him.” 

“Hardyng claims they were to be married at the end of the week,” Uncle Stannis stated flatly, possibly to himself as he tried to piece things together. 

The only comment she had in return was to insist it was in Harry’s head.  “I can see him thinking he could get her to do that; however, she would never let it go that far no matter how much he begged.  His insisting would have given her the excuse she was looking for to call off the wedding.” 

Uncle Stannis had that look again that meant he was contemplating whether to say something or not.   She studied him while he decided and Papa was calming down.  “Had you met Hardyng around the same time as Miss Stark?”

“Before actually . . . at least four or five months ago.  He was seeing the divorced mother of one of my classmates.  I found him charming and handsome, and paid him little attention beyond that.  I don’t think there was a female present that he didn’t flirt with.”  Myrcella carefully left out that she was there with Trys Martell.   

Taking the first drink of his water, Uncle Stannis put the glass back on to the coaster.  “You were immune to his charm.  Why do you believe Miss Stark wasn’t?”

“He was a stray puppy in need.  Sansa had yet to harden to a well-crafted sob story.  Baelish kept her in a crowd where sob stories were few and far between, except for the stories of those being helped by the charities she was supporting.”  Myrcella realized she didn’t know how Hardyng ended up at an A-list party.  “I’ve no idea how Harry ended up at a fund-raiser or any event she would have been invited to.” 

She could see in Uncle Stannis’ tired eyes that he knew.  “How?” she persisted.

“Her aunt, Lysa Arryn invited him.”

“Shit!” Papa roared, sitting forward.  “You mean to tell me he is one of her gigolos?”

Myrcella noted the disapproving scowl her uncle gave Papa, probably for using profanity in front of his daughter.  Did Uncle Stannis know Papa at all?  Be that as it may, she found her father’s accusation that Sansa’s aunt was one of Harry’s conquests incredible.  “Certainly if he was, Mrs. Arryn would have forbid him from seeing Sansa.” 

“Hell no she wouldn’t have,” Papa bellowed.  “She probably threw Hardyng at her, with an overstatement of her wealth.  She probably realized Hardyng wouldn’t go so far as to marry her, but if she could get him to marry Sansa . . . he wouldn’t be moving on so fast and she had longer to dangle money at him to entice him to cheat on his wife with her.  Maybe have him all to herself for a while after he got tired of waiting for her monthly trust fund check after he realized he wasn’t going to have free access to it after he married Sansa.  Lysa may or may not know how well protected Sansa’s money is.  If she did, she’d have told him a boatload of lies about it if she thought it would keep him around.  The older she gets, and she never had Cat’s looks, the harder keeping the best of the _for hires_ around is for her.  The bitch was throwing Jon’s money at pool boys and tennis coaches for extras while Jon was alive.”    

The scenario Papa presented seemed of keen interest to Uncle Stannis while it thoroughly disgusted her.  “She’s her aunt!”  

“Your mother is your Uncle Tyrion’s sister, which makes her little Tasha’s aunt,” Papa reminded her, sinking back into the chair.  “Think for one minute she would hesitate to feed her niece to the wolves?”

This rated another scowl of disapproval from Uncle Stannis and a look over at her that seemed sad.  Myrcella was sure he had never approved of her mother.  Regardless, his rigid moral code would frown on one parent making disparaging remarks regarding the other in the presence of their children.  Likewise, he would never say anything to her about her mother unless totally unavoidable. 

“There was another reason Sansa was an easy target for Harry Hardyng,” she offered as soon as the though occurred to her.  “The main reason, I would assume.  Harry didn’t know enough to be afraid of Petyr Baelish, nor was Baelish able to ruin him.  The man had nothing and most women didn’t care about his past.  For some, it added to his neediness and others, like Sansa, might not have believed it.”

If she thought Uncle Stannis was keenly interested in information he was getting earlier, it was nothing to the wide-eyed stare he gave her now.  The half-lidded look of exhaustion was gone and she half expected him to start pulsating in his seat.  “You think Baelish drove away any one who showed an interest in Miss Stark?  Have you any example of that happening?”

“Just after they met and he started taking her to functions all around town, she met Willas Tyrell.  Willas showed an interest and Sansa was warming to him.  Everyone knows Loras is the one who is . . . well . . . prefers men to women.  Baelish played up Tyrell’s friendship in his column with Oberyn Martell.  Martell is notorious for bedding with both men and women.”

“How the hell do you know all this?” her father interjected, totally uncomfortable hearing his daughter speak of other people’s sex lives. 

“Oh Papa!” she smirked; the closest she had been to a laugh in days.  Myrcella continued her story, “The column was carefully crafted as only Baelish is capable of doing.  There was no accusation . . . just enough innuendo to start talk.  Willas got drunk one night and went horseback riding late at night and tried to take a high jump . . . it’s a miracle he’s still alive, but it left him crippled.  He returned back to Highgarden and hasn’t been back to King’s Landing since.  Sansa still writes him; he doesn’t write back.” 

“Did Miss Stark know or suspect Baelish’s intent?”  To her great relief, Uncle Stannis did not request more details or proof on how she happened to know Baelish targeted Willas Tyrell because of his interest in Sansa.  She did not want to mention Trys if she didn’t have to.  She would if it was necessary. 

“I didn’t have the heart to tell her what most of us were certain was the truth.  Even if it wasn’t Baelish’s intent, perception becomes reality when a large majority believe it to be true.  No one except Harry challenged Baelish’s belief that Sansa was his property after that.  For a King’s Landing minute, I actually admired Harry for it.  I know Baelish threatened to do a piece on Harry, accusing him of being a gigolo and Sansa told him she would never forgive him.” 

Her uncle’s next question startled her for its bluntness.  “Who do you think killed Sansa Stark?”

“Baelish is capable, but he’s also shrewd and smart.  If I believed Sansa would never marry Harry, I can’t see him not thinking all he had to do was wait.  Harry?  Impossible.  If Papa has the right of her aunt throwing Harry at Sansa, Lysa Arryn sounds capable of anything, including murder.” 

Mrs. Caswell stood in the open doorway and announced that dinner would be served in ten minutes.  Myrcella was just about to stand when Uncle Stannis addressed Papa.  “Robert, speaking of pictures, could I borrow that picture of Mother and Father in Braavos.  The sketch artist at the station is in need of some extra money and he’s pretty good with charcoal.  If it’s any good, I’ll have one done for you.”

“Sure, I’ll get it now before dinner since it’s in my bedroom closet somewhere.  I may have to look for it.”

As soon as Papa was out of earshot, Uncle Stannis stood with her, putting his black notebook back in his jacket pocket.  “I have one more question for you . . . two actually.  The first really isn’t a question, more wanting your insight.  I have reason to believe Miss Stark was planning to or had called off her engagement; however, the coroner says she had intercourse recently, probably that evening.  Was there anyone else?”

Myrcella was stunned.  “Oh Uncle!  She was raped before she was shot?”  She felt like she was going to be sick. 

“There is no evidence of rape,” he returned, a strange expression on his face and that was saying something about Uncle Stannis. 

“If there was no rape, I am not buying that she had sex that night or any time prior.  If ever there was a save it for marriage girl, it was Sansa.”  Myrcella remembered how Sansa tried not to chastise her for having already had sex with Trys, although her shock said volumes.  This had only been a month ago.      

Uncle Stannis started to ask another question and then changed his mind, running a hand along the back of his neck.  She wasn’t sure if it was a frustrated gesture or one of confusion.  “She didn’t have sex with Harry and she didn’t have sex with anyone else unless it was forced on her.  I’ll never believe otherwise.”  He probably believed she was being naïve and she couldn’t help that.  She wasn’t about to tell him she was far from it.

When he made no further argument, she reminded him that he had said he had two questions.  “Your father . . . he’s not drinking?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“I thought he looked ill the other day, but I would have expected him to be far more ill if he is going through withdrawal.   How sick has it made him?”

It was time he knew.  “The vacation Papa took earlier this year was to a clinic in Lys. He was able to go through medically supervised withdrawal there without the press here getting wind of it.  In fact, his fear was Petyr Baelish and his infamous column.  He’s been sober ever since, while making most who know him think he’s been cutting back.” 

Myrcella let that sink in and, anticipating his next question, went ahead with an answer.  “The bottle came out when he heard about Sansa.  So far, he hasn’t touched it.  I’ve tried numerous times to put it away, but he won’t let me.”

Uncle Stannis’ eyes narrowed and his scowl deepened.  “Why didn’t you tell me about this at the time?  Does Renly know?” 

“No, Uncle Renly doesn’t know.  Papa’s joke is to pour iced tea into a whiskey glass and have it sitting there when Uncle Renly comes by.”  Giving in to an earlier urge, Myrcella took a step closer to him, laid a hand on his shoulder, and rose up on the balls of her feet.  Uncle Stannis must have thought she wanted to whisper something for he obligingly leaned down.  Myrcella smiled knowing how awkward he was going to find what she was about to do.  Before she lost her nerve, she placed a kiss on her uncle’s lightly stubbled cheek.  “I didn’t tell you because I never see you, Uncle Stannis.” 

He wasn’t as embarrassed as she thought he’d be although she saw a hint of red in his cheeks.  “That is my fault entirely.”  If he meant to say anything more, her father’s return with the photograph of her grandparents stopped him. 

Dinner was a quiet affair after which her uncle said he had to get back to the station despite the late hour.  He thanked her for invitation and assured them both that he would keep them updated on any important developments.  Just before he left, Uncle Stannis offered his hand to Papa, who seemed to find it as surprising as she did, although he responded and they shook hands.  In an equally stunning move, Uncle Stannis awkwardly extended that same hand and touched her cheek with the side of his forefinger before turning around to walk towards his Buick. 

Of all the things talked about that evening, hoping some of it was helpful to her uncle in finding out who took Sansa from them, the one thing she couldn’t let go of was the notion that the coroner claimed Sansa had sex that night that wasn’t rape.  It was impossible . . . Sansa would have told her.  _Wouldn’t she?_  


	7. Chapter 7

Kings’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

 

As Stannis pulled away from the curb near Robert’s brownstone, he had every intention of driving home and trying to get a night’s sleep.  However, when he stopped the car, put it in park, and set the brake, he found himself in front of Sansa Stark’s apartment building.  Giving in, Stannis entered the building with its highly polished marble floors and rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor.  For the location and luxury of the building, certain key elements were missing.  The first was a doorman.  A shooter would have found it far more difficult to get in and out without being seen had there been an around the clock doorman.  The second was better lighting in the corridors.  This wouldn’t have prevented anything specific except possibly deterring someone from carrying a shotgun in or out for fear of being seen. This was King’s Landing, so you couldn’t count on everyone being in bed early. 

Stannis let himself in, flicking the switch for the overhead light that illuminated the room just enough to allow for making your way to the first available lamp.  As he walked into the room, he noticed the arge blood stain was no longer on the carpet.  Poor Nan Marsh had probably returned that day and scrubbed for hours to get it to where it wasn’t apparent unless you looked closely.  Somehow, he thought her former employer would have been upset at Nan working so hard at her age.  Stannis was pleased to know Sansa’s Will left her five thousand dollars.  That should mean the old woman could live out the rest of her days without working anymore. 

Turning on one lamp sitting on an end table, he took of his hat and coat, and draped them across the first chair beside the table.  Stannis was relieved to see the portrait was still there and that Baelish hadn’t tried to come back for it.  DCI Mormont would never allow uniforms to guard a crime scene that had already been inventoried and photographed.  If items were taken, it would be a matter for the charities to press charges against Baelish.  It was odd that the portrait wasn’t part of her personal bequests.  If it was owned by the charities, he would make a bid to purchase it.  If he owned it and put the portrait over his own fireplace mantle, then maybe his car wouldn’t drive him here at night instead of allowing him to go home.

To say that nothing made sense was an understatement.  Stannis loosened his tie and took off his cufflinks, putting them in his pants pocket.  Folding each shirtsleeve up a few turns, he began pacing back and forth in front of her portrait, occasionally glancing up at it.  He feared he was losing touch with reality when he stopped and actually spoke to it, “Who were you, Sansa Stark?”

_The portrait made no reply.  It merely continued to show the same hauntingly beautiful smile with shining bright blue eyes._

He paced some more, adding a few other gestures such as scratching his head or rubbing his forehead.  Stannis stopped again and spoke to her portrait.  “Can you tell me how you’ve convinced everyone, including me, that you were a virgin when the best medical examiner in Westeros says you weren’t?”

_Again, the portrait made no reply._

“Not answering?  Allow me to make a few observations.  Your parents die.  I’m sorry.  I know firsthand the affect that can have on you.  Your brother tries to dictate your life and foist the care of your younger sibling on you.  I know about this as well.  You take it for a while and then claim the right to tread your own path.  This too is familiar territory.  Unlike me, you look for the good in everyone.  I read this book a few years ago.  You’re Melanie Wilkes; at least you are until you have to face the reality that those around you aren’t all you would like them to be.” 

_If the portrait was offended by the comparison, it didn’t show it._

Stannis went back to pacing; his teeth grinding during a quiet interlude.    “Let’s look at your circle of acquaintances.  There is Robert and Myrcella.  You called him Uncle Robert.  You confided in Myrcella.  How much did you confide?”

_Still, the portrait was silent._

“I cannot verify that Myrcella was your closest confident.  Heavens help you if that role went to Lysa Arryn.  This brings us to Lysa and Hardyng.  Your Uncle Robert made some top-notch deductions that I am embarrassed to admit had not occurred to me.  Was your aunt so enamored of Hardyng that she’d marry you off to him in a bid to keep him nearby so she could accept whatever crumbs that fell from your table? 

_The portrait would find it rude to speculate to another person in such a matter, even if it were capable of doing so._

“Did Myrcella have the right of it about Hardyng?  Were you looking for someone to be a wedge between you and Baelish?  That’s not what I read in your diary.  Yet I didn’t read what I would expect of an idealistic young woman in love either; far from it.   

_Is that haunting smile about being lonely despite being surrounded by other people . . . won’t you tell me that much?_

“Let’s talk about the things that made you happy.  You loved your work, from the soup kitchen to the fundraisers.  That is the one thing the diary leaves no doubt about.  You liked to have your hair done, get a manicure, put on your makeup, dab on a scent from one of the bottles on your dressing table, put on silk stockings and lace undergarments, dress in an elegant evening gown or cocktail dress, and finish it off with the appropriate accessories.  No doubt you made women jealous and men’s eyes pop.  Did you know Baelish was showing you off as his creation?”

_The portrait neither confirmed nor denied._

“Let’s go back to Winterfell.  Your best friend married a jerk who tried to ruin your reputation because you wouldn’t go out on a date with him.  When did you last see these two and how did he end up with your friend?”

_The portrait wouldn’t tell her friend’s secrets._

“You interacted with Joffrey enough to know what a weasel he is.  What did he do to show his hand?”

_The portrait would not part with even the smallest detail._

Stannis knew he should go home.  What he didn’t know was what was stopping him.  He sat down in the wing-back chair, positioning himself so that he could still look up at Sansa’s portrait.  It was getting to the point where he had immersed himself so deeply into this woman’s life, he thought of her as _Sansa_ instead of _Miss Stark_ , _the deceased_ , or _the victim_.   The minute he slipped up and referred to her by her given name in front of Davos, DCI Mormont, or someone like Baelish, they were going to figure out just how far down the rabbit hole he had gone. 

“So . . . Sansa . . . chalk me up as one of the enamored.  You wouldn’t have looked at me twice.  I’m not stylish, I haven’t danced since I was forced to learn by tutors, and there isn’t a woman on this side of town who would find me more appealing than Petyr Baelish or Harry Hardyng.  But I would have let you be yourself and I wouldn’t have taken advantage of you or taken you for granted.” 

His eyelids grew heavy and Stannis gave into the temptation to close them.  The last conscious thought he had was that he wouldn’t mind if his dreams had coppery tresses and light blue eyes.

“Mr. Baratheon?”

_Is that what her voice sounds like?  Soft and melodic, not high pitched and thankfully not whiny._

“Mr. Baratheon . . . please wake up.”

_Why?  And, call me Stannis._

Something briefly touching his arm and jostling it a bit made him sit bolt upright.  Stannis squinted a few times to focus on whatever it was that was in front of him.   The ivory wide-brimmed hat was the first thing to come into view, but he wasn’t the least bit prepared what he thought he saw next.  Stannis closed his eyes and opened them again as his heart began to race.  He was looking at a ghost . . . an immaculately groomed ghost in an ivory traveling suit tailored for a perfect fit, a black blouse of some sort showing between the lapels of the jacket, silk stockings on her legs, and matching ivory heels.   

“You are Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon, are you not?” the ghost spoke with eyes suddenly growing wide with panic.  “Has something happened to Uncle Robert or Myrcella?”

Stannis slowly got to his feet, looking at the speaking apparition, then to the portrait, and back at the apparition.  He had lowered himself to talking to a portrait, but he wasn’t ready to talk to a ghost.  Very deliberately, Stannis reached forward to touch her, fully expecting his hand to pass right through her.  Instead, his fingers found themselves encircling her wrist . . . a warm wrist with soft skin and firm bone.

“Please!  You’re scaring me.”

She was real . . . and she was Sansa Stark.  While not flagrant, he could even small a faint whiff of the perfume he’d smelled in her closet and on her dressing table the night before.  By everything logical, if the word _logical_ could even be used at the moment, Stannis knew he should be overjoyed that she wasn’t dead.  Instead, he felt white hot anger coursing through his veins.  “Where have you been?” he heard himself demanding in a choked voice.

“I’ve been at my cottage on Blackwater Bay,” she answered, her alarm obviously growing as she took a step back from him.

He met her step back with a step forward.  Everyone said she was leaving for the cottage the morning of her . . . the victim’s murder.  “How many days were you there?”

“Will you please tell me what this is about?” Sansa pleaded. 

Stannis felt the veins in his neck throbbing.  He was afraid if he closed his mouth fully, his jaw would clench so tight, it would never open again.  “How long?” he barked insistently, balling his fingers into fists at his sides in a bid for control. 

“I left here three days ago,” she said, biting her lower lip and then looking around the drawing room.  “Where’s Jeyne?”

So now he knew it was Jeyne Bolton in the morgue.  Stannis wasn’t ready to tell her what had happened yet.  He needed to know what she knew and how involved she was. “Jeyne isn’t here.  Your aunt said you were not leaving for the cottage until the following day. “

“I went a day early.  Is this about Aunt Lysa?” Her blue eyes continued to look around the room seeing if anything would tell her what was going on, much like he had stared at her portrait for two nights looking for answers and mourning her death.

“Why go earlier than planned?”  Stannis tried to shake the feeling of anger.  It wasn’t helping anything. 

Sansa Stark stared at him; it was her turn to be angry.  “If you cannot give me a reasonable explanation for being here, then I'm calling the police.”

“I _am_ the police.”  He didn’t have a leg to stand on for being in her apartment this time of night, but then again she wouldn’t know that.  “You referred to me as DI Baratheon.  How do you know who I am?”  _Had she already tripped something up by acting as though she didn’t know what was going on yet knew who he was?_

Now her face, framed by her copper hair as it hung loose about her shoulders, went from angry to confused.  “You’re Uncle Robert’s brother.  I’ve seen pictures of you in the paper and the one of you with Uncle Robert and your younger brother at Myrcella’s graduation from Sixth Form.  My father has pictures of you when you were younger at your summer house.”

Some of his fury and shock was beginning to dissipate, but there was more he needed to know.  “You aren’t particularly startled to find me in your apartment.”

Sansa Stark’s expressions were an easy read, currently showing defiance.  “You are quite mistaken.  I'm more than a little alarmed to find you here and it's my turn to ask questions.  Where is Jeyne?”

If she truly didn’t know what was going on, then her friend not being here would be of concern.  In her shoes, he would refuse to cooperate any more until having that much answered.  “Tell me first why you went to your cottage early and I’ll answer your question.”

“I needed a fresh perspective and no interruptions while I made some decisions,” Sansa stated.  “Now please, what happened and where is Jeyne Bolton?”

Stannis moved away from the wing-back toward the mantle.  “You need to sit down, Miss Stark.” 

The wide-eyed look of panic returned at the suggestion that she be seated.  “Did Ramsay find her here?”  She made no move to sit down. 

“If you’ll be seated, I will tell you why I’m here.” 

She knew it was bad news and she probably had already figured it out if, indeed, she hadn’t known it before.  Stannis did not relish telling any part of this.  He left breaking news to families to Seaworth.  “Tell me,” she insisted, her voice barely above a whisper.  She made no move toward the chair. 

“Mrs. Arryn came to your apartment around midnight the night you say you were first at the cottage.  She says you were not expected to be gone until the next day.  She reported that she knocked and when no one responded, she opened the door with her key and found your body on the floor.”

Stannis had to practically leap to catch her as her knees gave way and Sansa began to sink toward the floor.  The position in which he caught her made it difficult to walk her to the chair, but he managed as soon as her legs grew steady enough to help. 

Tears welled in her eyes and soon spilled down her cheeks.  Not knowing what else to do, Stannis extracted the thankfully clean handkerchief from his pants pocket and handed it to her.  He watched as tears poured and sniffles came.  “This can’t be happening!  I don’t understand!”  Sansa cried into the handkerchief, trying to regain composure.  “Jeyne’s hair is long and she dyes it red, but we don’t look so much alike that Aunt Lysa would have confused her for me.”

Stannis tried to avoid the details of the murder by going back to questions that were still very important to settling his mind regarding her innocence.  “Does your cottage have a radio?” 

“Yes.”

He felt his muscles tighten.  “Mrs. Marsh told us that you generally read and listen to the radio before you go to sleep . . . that it is your ritual.”

“It is my routine here,” Sansa replied, dabbing at her nose to avoid blowing it into his handkerchief while he was watching her.  “At the cottage, I only get one station well enough to listen to and they play jazz music in the evening.   I play phonograph records when I want music at the cottage.  Is there a reason my radio is important to what has happened to Jeyne?  Do you have Ramsay in custody?”

Stannis had to ask himself if he believed her because it rang true or because he wanted to believe her.  One thing for certain; he could not think of a motive for her to kill Jeyne Bolton.  “Until you woke me up, the King’s Landing Police believed you were the victim of this crime.  We had no reason to suspect Bolton.  Did anyone see you while you were on the east side of the Bay?”

She thought for a moment.  “Yesterday, there was a little girl, about five, who had lost her way and rode her tricycle down into my drive while I was weeding the flower bed.  I walked along with her as she cycled back to the top of the drive.  Her mother was along the lane looking for her.  I waved at her and she called out to thank me.”

“This neighbor wasn’t shocked to see you yesterday?  Your . . . death . . . was widely reported, including a broadcast by Petyr Baelish.”

“Oh my!” Sansa sat up straight.  “Who believes me to be dead?”

“Everyone,” Stannis informed her.   She would want to start making phone calls, even this late at night.  He couldn’t allow that.  It’s possible Jeyne Bolton was the target; however, it was more likely that dark corridor and dim light, which she may not have turned on, may have allowed the shooter to believe it was Sansa Stark in the doorway.  Without a face, everyone else was convinced.  “We will discuss who you can tell, but right now I still need answers. “  He realized his anger was now completely gone and it was growing difficult to focus on being a detective, not a man going from shock to anger to relief that she wasn’t dead. 

“Of course,” she responded, still trying to stop the tears. 

Stannis went to his jacket and pulled out his notebook and pen.  He took a few notes about what she had already told him.  “When did Jeyne Bolton arrive at your apartment and why was she here?” 

“I found Jeyne in the building foyer waiting for me when I returned from the morning service at the Great Sept.  She had taken the train and said she was leaving Ramsay and could she stay with me for a while.  I had already rented a car and was packed for the cottage, and she insisted I still go.  I . . . I did need to get away and I didn’t think Ramsay knew where I lived.  We both believed her husband would think she went to the Iron Islands.”

Once he caught up with taking notes on that much, he asked, “Why the Iron Islands?”

Her cheeks and nose already red from crying, it seemed as though she flushed a little more.  “Before Ramsay, Jeyne was in a . . . romance . . . with Theon Greyjoy.”  Stannis now assumed her blushing was from having to find a way to relay that Jeyne Bolton and Theon Greyjoy were once lovers.  “He used to work for my father and later for Robb.  Theon went back home a year ago and tried to get Jeyne to go with him.  She was too afraid and, well, she wasn’t sure of her feelings for him.  However, we did believe Ramsay would suspect her of going to another man and that was likely Theon.  Ramsay might not fear Theon, yet he would have the sense to fear Theon’s two uncles.  I sent a telegram in Jeyne’s name before I left for the cottage advising him to look out for Ramsay.”

Stannis suspected the two Greyjoy uncles she spoke of were mobsters Euron and Victarion.    “How long have you known Jeyne Bolton?”

The tears returned and Stannis tried to be patient while she collected herself.  “For as long as I can remember.  Jeyne’s father was my father’s right-hand man.”

He was grateful to have the notebook to focus on.  “And Ramsay Bolton?  How long have you known him?”

She bit her lip.  “I met him three years ago.  Detective, why did my aunt think Jeyne was me?  Why did she not recognize me?  Or why didn’t the policemen looking at my portrait not realize it wasn’t me?  That doesn’t make sense!”

This was only prolonging the agony.  “If it is Jeyne Bolton in the morgue, the assumption is that she answered the door and was murdered by someone with a shotgun.  Her face was unrecognizable.  We only had red hair and your peig . . . your nightgown to go by.”  


	8. Chapter 8

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Stark

Sansa waited to wake up.  This had to be a horrible nightmare and she would wake up any second, just like she had awoken the detective in her dream.  She waited and remembered the old adage about pinching yourself.  When pinching her arm only brought pain and the appearance of a look of sympathy along with the infamous Stannis Baratheon scowl, the feeling of nausea became worse.  This was happening.  Jeyne had been murdered in her apartment and they’ve been chasing who knows who as a suspect instead of Ramsay Bolton.  Detective Baratheon needed to know about Ramsay, Jeyne, and her . . . she couldn’t bring herself to form the words. 

“Can I get you anything?” she heard the detective ask with gruff concern, crouching down in front of her until he was looking her levelly in the eye as she sat.  He raised his hand toward her and, for a second, she thought he meant to lay it on her hands folded in front of her that held his handkerchief.  Pulling the hand back, he continued, “A glass of water?  Something stronger?”

“N . . . no . . . no, thank you,” Sansa stammered.  “Please just give me a moment.”

DI Baratheon stood back up and patiently waited.   Taking a deep breath, Sansa hoped that if she started the story, it would all come out before she dissolved into a puddle of tears.  “Roose Bolton used to run the lumber operation out of Stark’s Dreadfort area.  He left the company to start a construction company at some point, bringing his son into the business when he got out of school.  Robb . . . my older brother . . . wanted to ensure Stark had the contract for his efforts and invited him and his son to be our guests at Winterfell while Robb and Mr. Bolton entered contract negotiations.  Their negotiations left Ramsay there as a guest with a lot of free time on his hands.  I tried to be a good hostess.  My friend, Jeyne Poole, visited me at Winterfell often . . . she lived in the town of Winterfell named after my family’s estate.  Jeyne developed a crush on Ramsay right away. “

Sansa stopped, biting her lip nervously.  She so did not want go any further despite knowing she had to.  Looking up at the detective, she sensed he either guessed or knew what was coming as his eyes seemed to be trying to encourage her to finish.  DI Baratheon had very expressive eyes.  “Ramsay tried to court me upon his arrival at Winterfell.  When I could not . . . respond to his overtures, he started in on Jeyne.  It was a cruel courtship at best.  He would tell her that her hair was pretty, but it would be prettier if it were red . . . that he loved brown eyes almost as much as blue ones.  To this day, I don’t know what he meant to achieve.  During this time, Ramsay tried to dissuade his father from making a contract with Stark and my brother realized it had something to do with me.  He tried to encourage me to at least give Ramsay hope.  I couldn’t do it.  There was something about Ramsay that made me uneasy from the moment I met him.  The best I can do is tell you it was something instinctive.”

Looking down at her hands tightly clasped around his handkerchief and sitting on her lap, she noticed how white her knuckles were and that her fingers were going numb.  She unclasped them and flexed her fingers until the feeling returned.  “Did he make any threats to you then or afterward?” DI Baratheon asked, forcing her to focus again on getting this over with.

“Not directly.  He would say things like ‘it would be a shame if anything interfered with our families doing business’ or ‘I assume it is your purpose at Stark to marry to improve business’.  Ramsay was irate when his father signed a five-year contract over his wishes and I was never more relieved to have someone gone from our home.  I saw less of Jeyne after that; she didn’t come to visit as she had.  Then I saw her in town only I didn’t recognize her.  She had died her hair red and was letting it grow longer.  When I asked her about it, she said Ramsay liked red hair.  They were writing each other and I hoped she would grow tired of it and meet someone else.  He proposed by letter and she accepted.  That was the last I saw of her until the other night.  However, she starting writing me just after I arrived in King’s Landing.  Ramsay was hitting her and constantly saying cruel, vicious things to her.  He . . . “

“Yes?” the detective encouraged when she found it hard to go on. 

Sansa so did not want to articulate this part . . . not out loud.  Tears began again and she retained the handkerchief she had dropped in her lap, trying in vain to stop crying and finish the story. 

When she finally did stop and felt able to speak again, she looked up at DI Baratheon to apologize.  Sansa wasn’t sure if his rigid stance and clenched jaw were from his discomfort at her outburst or lingering annoyance at being awoken by a dead woman.  “I cannot say for sure.  I always believed her first letters were prompted by Ramsay.  That he wanted me to know what was happening to her was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault!” DI Baratheon insisted emphatically . . . so much so that she found it a bit odd. 

“I don’t know how Ramsay found her here.  Her first letters were to my old address . . . I had an apartment before this one.  She got that address from Robb.  Afterward, I told him he was not to give my address to anyone without my consent.  I had her write me in care of the orphanage after I moved, deliberately not wanting Ramsay to know where I lived.”

“Yet, you found her in your lobby so she knew this address,” the detective pointed out. 

“She went to the orphanage and Mrs. Redfort gave her my address,” Sansa explained.  “I had told much of the story to Mrs. Redfort, even saying I hoped Jeyne would leave Ramsay and come to work for the orphanage.  Mrs. Redfort would never have told my address to a man who showed up looking for me, especially knowing Jeyne was in town and her husband may be trying to find her.” 

“Did your letters to her encourage her to leave Ramsay?”

Sansa was thankful, if only for her own sanity, that she could tell him she did not in her letters.  They did talk about it on the phone once when Jeyne called her after being beaten.  If she had written something and Ramsay found it, she would have felt even more responsible for Jeyne’s death.  She really had nothing more to add and watched as the detective took it all in.  In a feeble attempt to take her mind off of the realities in front of her, she observed Stannis Baratheon closely.  You wouldn’t have looked at him and thought him Uncle Robert’s brother if you didn’t already know of it, not by looking at him or even by being around him.  Yes, they both had dark hair, although gray was beginning to mix with Uncle Robert’s wiry hair for a salt and pepper look.  Oddly enough, she didn’t remember Uncle Robert’s eye color and yet she was well aware of Stannis Baratheon’s dark blue eyes, perhaps because of their intensity.   Sansa imagined Uncle Robert could be intense when working to get his way in Parliament or was irritated with someone.  Despite him having a bellowing voice that he could use to be noticed, Sansa had mostly seen a gentle, jovial side of Uncle Robert until shortly after he quit drinking.  Sansa had never witnessed him belligerent or unable to function drunk.  Instead, he would become more boisterous and merry.  This was in sharp contrast to the first month after he came back from the clinic in Lys where he had periods of being mean spirited and bellowing seemed non-stop.  Myrcella had been a saint and Sansa tried to support them both as much as she could.    

However, the brooding man before her who was alternating between writing in his notebook and looking back at the doorway was lean, muscular, and clean shaven.   DI Baratheon was shorter than Uncle Robert, yet still a tall man.  Sansa vaguely remembered Myrcella saying there was six years between each Baratheon brother.  She knew Uncle Robert to be forty-three, which made DI Baratheon thirty-seven.  Despite the scowl, he was handsome in a way that was vastly different from a Harry or his nephew, Joffrey.  It wasn’t a _pretty_ handsome as much as a _rugged_ handsome.  It was that rugged, no-nonsense demeanor he was displaying that gave her confidence that he would find Ramsay now that he knew who to look for.  That and the fact that she remembered Uncle Robert once saying that his brother was so driven, it was impossible for him to let anything go. 

“Did anyone see you tonight when you arrived, either parking or coming into the building . . .anyone who recognized you?”  DI Baratheon asked, breaking back into her thoughts.

She considered the question.  “No.  If they had, we would have spoken.”

“Yes, and they probably would have reacted to seeing you,” he reasoned.  “There are a few more things I need to ask you tonight.  I’m afraid more questions will come later.”

“I understand.”  Sansa would cooperate fully to see that Jeyne’s murderer, that Ramsay, was brought to justice.  “I will be available to you as much as you require.” 

Her statement prompted a very odd look from him.  There as a widening of his eyes and he looked uncomfortable.  _Had he expected her to object?_   _Was it possible he suspected her?_   So far, she couldn’t say that his questions indicated that he did suspect her.  Nonetheless, it was an avenue he was duty bound to explore and she dreaded the time wasted removing herself as a suspect when it should be spent finding Ramsay Bolton. 

DI Baratheon’s expression changed from uncomfortable to gravely serious.  “Miss Stark, there is irrefutable evidence that Mrs. Bolton had . . . was with a man that night and that she was not forced.  Is it possible that Theon Greyjoy met her here that night?” 

Sansa found that difficult to believe although she had to admit Jeyne was not as concerned about warning Theon that Ramsay might go to Pyke looking for her.  She had agreed with Jeyne’s assertion that, even though Theon was not involved in their enterprises, the uncles would be enough to deter Ramsay from bothering Theon.  It didn’t make sense, yet Sansa could not count on her logic or ability to reason being at full capacity at the moment.   Disbelief, grief, and fear were all competing with logic to dominate her emotions.  Perhaps if she relayed all her thoughts, he would make better sense of it.

“Jeyne did not say that Theon was in town.  What she said was that she expected Ramsay to believe her to have gone to Pyke to be with Theon.  I asked her if she felt Ramsay would threaten Theon and she didn’t think he would risk the wrath of Theon’s uncles.  I agreed; however, I sent Theon the telegram I mentioned because I thought he should be warned.  I cannot say I know Ramsay well.  I’ve been afraid of him since I met him.  I view him as unpredictable.  What I cannot put together is Jeyne meeting Theon here in my apartment when she didn’t know I would be going away.  If she wanted to run to Theon, why not go to Pyke where the uncles were there as an incentive for Ramsay to stay away?”

Again, DI Baratheon took more notes.  “Is there anyone else you can think of who would have met her here?”

“With the exception of her letting Ramsay in to try to placate him . . . “ Sansa stopped.  There was this niggling thought that crossed her mind that Harry might have come to try to excuse or explain his practically devouring her aunt’s face in a passionate kiss in the dark balcony off Aunt Lysa’s penthouse during the veteran’s benefit.  Her reason for leaving for the cottage earlier than planned was to avoid such a confrontation with him until she had thought things through.  If Harry did come to her apartment and Jeyne let him in, Sansa could see Harry trying to charm a new female in his orbit and Jeyne falling prey to flattery and Harry’s boyish good looks.  She hadn’t wanted to burden Jeyne with her situation, so she wouldn’t have told her that her fiancé who she was going away to figure out how to break off with was coming by.  What she couldn’t remember was if she mentioned an acquaintance might stop by before she got back.  It was possible she did; she couldn’t remember.   However, it made no sense if it had been Harry.  If it had, then he could have told the police it wasn’t her in her apartment that night.  Mentioning the possibility might needlessly implicate Harry.  He was one for which other men tended to think the absolute worst. 

She realized she had left her statement hanging and that his brow was furrowed waiting for her to finish.  “No.  I can’t think of anyone else.”

The detective flipped his notebook closed.  “I’m afraid you can’t stay here tonight or possibly for several nights.”

At the moment, she was afraid of staying in her apartment until Ramsay was caught.  It added to her distress that her own home had suddenly become a place she didn’t feel safe on her own.  “I will get a hotel . . .”

“No,” DI Baratheon cut in vehemently.  “You will be recognized at a hotel.  For right now, we need everyone to think the victim is still you.  Even if Bolton is the murderer, we have an advantage if he doesn’t know we are on to him.”

This sent alarm bells ringing.  “You aren’t suggesting I not tell my family and close friends that I am not dead, are you?”

Sansa saw his jaw clench and heard this strange sound . . . _was he grinding his teeth?_   It must have been for the sound stopped when he spoke.  “I will do my best to insist that you do just that, for your own safety as well as for the benefit of the case.  If you were the intended victim, and we can’t rule that out, you can’t risk the murderer coming back for a second attempt.”

His assertion that she was in danger from anyone other than Ramsay was ridiculous.  “I assure you I was not the victim unless it was Ramsay intending me as his victim.  No one else would want to harm me in the manner you describe.  I can’t believe I’ve made an enemy here in King’s Landing capable of such . . . such a barbaric act.”

“Let’s examine that.”  The detective sat down in the chair, sitting forward so as not to muss his jacket.  “There is your fiancé, Harrold Hardyng.   You were planning to break off your engagement, were you not?”

How did he know that?  Harry couldn’t even say that for sure, despite the fact that it should be obvious to him.  Aunt Lysa might have made that deduction; her admitting it was unlikely.  The only way she was going to know that was to ask.  “It is true that I went away to consider the best course of action to do that without causing too much drama.  I hadn’t told anyone for certain that was my intent.  May I ask who told you I was breaking off the engagement?”

Red crept into the detectives cheeks and he put his head down to hide it.  Taking in a deep breath, he raised his head again and held her eyes.  “Miss Stark, you have to realize we thought you were dead.  The dead lose their right to privacy when we’re trying to solve a murder.   So, when I found your diary . . . I read it.” 

It was Sansa’s turn to blush.  No, it was far more than blush.  Anger began to well and she was just about to tell him that was no excuse when she realized how miserable and apologetic he looked.  It was odd how expressive he could be and still manage to wear a scowl through it all.  It was more about the look in his eyes.  If she were dead and were able to have a thought on the matter, Sansa had to admit she would want them to do what they had to in order to find who ended her life.  Still, she was not entirely happy to know her private thoughts of the past two years were known to him.  “How many others have read my diary?”

“No one,” he assured her, apparently relieved at her not screaming at him. “I relayed pertinent information, such as your intent to call off your engagement, to my sergeant.”

It occurred to her that, while this invasion of privacy was extremely painful, it was less so if he was the only reader.  In a strange way, Stannis Baratheon was included in the friends and family category despite tonight being the first time they had met.  As she was painfully aware in the last hour, there was no turning back time.  DI Baratheon had read her diary, and he knew things most did not about her.  Sighing, she answered his initial question, “Yes, I am breaking off my engagement with Harry.  He did not know that for certain.”

“He had good reason to believe you would.”

Sansa couldn’t remember how much she had written about the party in her diary.  Whatever details she had or hadn’t included, she did not want to go into them now.  “Yes, he did.  Detective, I assure you that Harry Hardyng would shoo a fly away rather than kill it.  As for a woman; he loves women too much to hurt one . . . ever.”

“You can’t be absolutely sure of that,” he insisted.  “There is also your aunt, Lysa Arryn.  She was able to deceive you.  Can you honestly say it’s impossible for her to go to such an extreme?”

Right now, Sansa couldn’t honestly say that.  Still, it made little sense.  “Why would she do that if I was clearing the way for her to have Harry all to herself?  She’s the one who should have been happy with the knowledge that I might be breaking the engagement.”

She was beginning to hate it when it was obvious DI Baratheon was trying to determine how much to tell her.  “There is an assumption that your aunt felt Harry marrying you would keep him closer to her longer.” 

“That’s . . . “ she started to say that was ridiculous, but it actually wasn’t.  Deep down, she knew Aunt Lysa was motivated by sex and would do whatever it took to ensure she was getting a steady diet of it.  That she preferred Harry as her main meal was the part she hadn’t realized until recently.   Be that as it may, his argument didn’t hold up.  “I see.  Does it make sense that she would kill me if her objective is to use me to keep him around?  Surely that would defeat her purpose.” 

“Unless she was angry with you for foiling her objective.” 

Somehow, Sansa saw it in his face that he wasn’t entirely buying that argument either.  “Nothing you have told me makes me believe I am in danger if I tell my family I am alive.  I should at least be able to tell my brother and sister, and even your brother and niece.” 

The clenched jaw and teeth grinding returned.  Such a display would normally unnerve her; it was odd that didn’t do so now.   It was possible he was irritated at not being easily obeyed; however, her first thought was that it was frustration at someone he wasn’t doing what he thought best for them.  “There is Petyr Baelish.”

 _Petyr?_   Petyr would crucify someone in his column, not shoot them and she told DI Baratheon as much. 

“It’s late.  I’m sure sleep is not going to come easily tonight, but you need to rest.  Tomorrow, we can discuss who can be told.  Tomorrow morning, I will have the chief inspector meet with you and you may confer with him on your safety.  For tonight, please give me the benefit of the doubt.” 

Making phone calls late in the evening and saying, “Hello, I’m alive,” would not be the best way to handle imparting such news.  Uncle Robert could have a heart attack and DI Baratheon probably knew it.   Robb couldn’t be sent a telegram until tomorrow.  “If I cannot go to a hotel or to a friend’s, where do you suggest I go?”

DI Baratheon blushed again and if she thought he looked uncomfortable before, his eyes said he was absolutely miserable now.  “Miss Stark, in the absence of a better option, I am going to ask you to be my guest . . . at least for tonight.” 

She didn’t know what to say.  It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him.  And even if she didn’t, they were both smart enough to know that Uncle Robert would either kill him or ruin him if he misbehaved.  What was of concern was her reputation.  “I don’t understand.  If hotel staff is liable to recognize me, what about someone at your building?  I realize it is late . . .”

“I’m not in a high-rise,” DI Baratheon cut in.  “I’m in a townhouse on Forty-Eighth Street.  Someone might see a lady go inside with me and be curious, but they aren’t going to see you well enough to realize who it is.  I drove so there is no need for a cab.” 

He allowed her silence to think the matter over; possibly to work up his own arguments if she said no.  That was just it.  She seriously doubted that, for tonight, DI Baratheon was going to take no for an answer.  The argument about fearing Uncle Robert should he misbehave with her in any way doubled should DI Baratheon not see to her safety.  And she could not say she was safe if Ramsay was still in the city.

As he said, there were not many options at the moment and she was too tired to argue.  “Thank you, Detective.  May I pack a few things first?  What I have packed needs to be laundered.” 

She could see the relief in his face as he said, “Of course.”  Sansa stood and he immediately got to his feet as men raised properly did when a lady rose from her seat.  Suddenly, she was overwhelmed again by the enormity of it all.  Jeyne was dead, horrifically murdered in her apartment, and now she had to leave her home in order to be safe.  The tears began again, more violently than before.  Sansa looked to him to try to apologize for the outburst and saw his arms reach forward awkwardly.  Without a second thought and not caring at the moment if holding her while she cried had been his real intent, she fell into his arms, buried her head on his shoulder,  and sobbed.    


	9. Chapter 9

King’s Landing, 1940  
Jeor Mormont

The shrill ringing of the telephone in his bedroom woke him from a dead sleep.  “Mormont,” he grunted into the receiver, noting his wife stirring out of the corner of his eye.  Fortunately, years of this sort of thing made her fall back asleep easily. 

“DI Baratheon,” came the graveled voice on the other end of the line.  “Sir, I need you to come to my residence first thing this morning.  I can’t explain, but it is imperative.”

“Do you know what the fuck time it is, Baratheon?” Jeor growled back at him.  His alarm clock said it was four thirty and he wouldn’t normally be up for another hour and a half. 

The voice on the other end was undaunted.  “I am sorry for the hour.  I needed to be sure I caught you before you got to the station.  DS Seaworth will be coming straight here as well.”

That Baratheon called his sergeant this early without worrying about waking up his pregnant wife and kids took no stretch of the imagination.  Jeor didn’t think the man was deliberately inconsiderate.  He was obsessive on any case.  On this one, he seemed more possessed than obsessed.  Still, while the man came into the station at the ass-crack of dawn, he damn well knew most of the other detectives, including him, started their shift on time at eight o’clock unless a case warranted otherwise. 

“This had better be worth waking me up and getting me to go all the way over to the other side of town, Baratheon,” he rasped and slammed the phone down. 

Now that he was awake, he would never get back to sleep or only get there just before it was time to wake up again.  Baratheon was up and Seaworth was probably already on his way over there.  Jeor had no idea what the emergency was.  What he did know was that DI Baratheon wasn’t one to press the panic button.  If he said he couldn’t talk about it over the phone, this was important. 

A shower, throwing on of clothes, and a quick cup of coffee later, Jeor leaned over his wife’s sleeping form and kissed her temple before making his way to his detective inspector’s townhouse . . . a townhouse that was worth five times what his row house on the outskirts of King’s Landing was worth, if not more.  Baratheon was truly an enigma on the police force, maintaining his wealth yet opting to be a detective and forgoing a lucrative job in his family business or any prestigious law firm in town.  He wondered if Baratheon knew the Police Commissioner had questioned whether he could be a good detective with all his wealth and privilege.  Jeor told him if Baratheon wasn’t an example of a good detective, he’d love to see what that really was for he didn’t have one in his station.   The only trouble with Baratheon, other than calling one at all hours of the day or night, was that he couldn’t stand to lose.  The one case he hadn’t solved to date about drove him mad for the first three months, and Jeor knew he still pulled the case files out and continued to study it for leads between other cases.  Three witnesses claimed a shadow was the murderer.  It was the damndest thing. 

It took him forty minutes to make his way to Baratheon’s townhouse, another five to find a parking spot, and ten to walk from where he was parked to the townhouse.  Just as he was ready to walk up the stoop, he saw DS Seaworth running towards the townhouse from the other direction.  Jeor wondered whether the haste was to catch up with him so Baratheon could let them in at the same time or if he ran for drill when Baratheon called.  Although Seaworth was nobody’s lapdog, years ago he had begged to be assigned with the cranky DI when no one else wanted to be his next sergeant.  For years, Baratheon went through sergeants like shit through a goose.  Seaworth had lasted for three years now, and there hadn’t been a peep out of either one of them requesting a change. 

Baratheon answered the door in a crisp white shirt, black and gold striped tie, and black suit pants.  It had to be the first time he’d seen him without his suit jacket that he could remember.  Most of the rest of his detectives took their jacket off at the station.  Not Baratheon . . . ever.  “Come in.” 

“What the sam hell is so urgent that you had to wake me up and have me come all the way out here?” Jeor barked, walking in first with Seaworth following behind. 

Leading them through a relatively bare foyer and Spartan drawing room, Baratheon ignored the question.  When they reached the kitchen, he asked them if they’d like a cup of coffee.  More than a little pissed off at being ignored, Jeor wanted to rail that he didn’t want any damned coffee.  However, that coffee smelled too damned good to pass up on.  Seaworth merely nodded and Baratheon was already pouring his into a mug that was sitting out on the counter.  “Yeah, I’ll take a cup.”

Baratheon poured from the percolator again and then nodded toward the dish of sugar cubes and small pitcher of cream.  Jeor took his coffee black, just as they did.  “Now will you tell us why we’re here?” he tried again, taking a sip of the coffee. 

“Damn,” Seaworth noted after taking a drink from his mug.  “This isn’t your normal swill.”  He rolled his eyes at Jeor, “Usually, the first sip of his coffee grows hair on your chest and the second rips it off.” 

“Dammit!  I’m not here for Baratheon’s coffee!” Jeor growled, giving Seaworth one of his fiercest glares for interrupting. 

Baratheon leaned his hips against the counter and called, “You may come out now.” 

Before he could move to glance in the opposite direction, he caught the look on Seaworth’s face.  His eyes seemed to double in size and a second later, he dropped the almost completely full coffee mug on the tiled kitchen floor, shattering the mug and barely missing his suit pants.  “What the hell is . . . “ Jeor started, turning to see what had caused such a reaction.  He was able to put his coffee mug down on the counter, but the words “Fuck me” slipped out before he could stop them. 

“May I introduce Miss Sansa Stark . . . back from the dead,” Baratheon quipped dryly.  There she stood in the doorway at the far end of the kitchen.  The only picture of her he had seen was the one in the case file opened the day after the murder.  You could tell this was the same woman though the picture hadn’t done her justice.  Perhaps it was just because of it being in black and white.  The girl’s eyes were puffy and swollen, and even still, her eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue he’d ever seen. Ladies’ fashion wasn’t his strong suit.  For his wife, if she could even fit in the navy blue number with the yellow collar, slim skirt, and small waist, it wasn’t a dress she would wear around the house.  This would be dress to wear to sept in his neighborhood.  His wife didn't wear pearls in the house either.

Jeor glanced back at Baratheon, who wore his usual scowl.  Seaworth still had his mouth wide open.  “Close it,” Jeor barked at him.  Then to Baratheon, “I want an explanation and I want it now!” 

Baratheon seemed in no hurry to give him answers.  The girl walked into the kitchen towards them.  “Miss Stark, may I introduce DCI Mormont and DS Seaworth.” 

“How do you do,” she replied, and then focused to Baratheon, “Where do you keep your mop?”

“I’ll get it,” Seaworth stammered, squatting to start picking up the pieces of the broken mug. 

Baratheon pushed himself away from the counter.  “Sir, if you would sit at the kitchen table, we’ll all sit down and bring you up to date.”

Jeor took his cup of coffee and sat that table, watching as the other three awkwardly went about cleaning up the mess, the resurrected girl trying to be patient as the other two fumbled over each other to help.  Once the mess was mopped up and the glass removed to her satisfaction, Seaworth opened a few cupboards until he found another mug, poured another cup of coffee, and joined him at the table. 

Baratheon wordlessly tried to lead her toward the table.  “I can hear and speak from here,” she said.  “You have guests who got here before breakfast.  I will see what I can pull together.” 

“You don’t need to wait on us,” Baratheon returned, his scowl deepening.

She leaned in and whispered something to him that made him shrug with a nod.  “I don’t know what’s in the icebox, but go ahead.”

The three of them sat at the kitchen table and wordlessly watched her as she opened the icebox and inspected, eventually taking out a bowl of eggs and a package wrapped in butcher’s paper.  Baratheon was the first to shake them out of it.  “Miss Stark arrived back to her apartment last night about ten o’clock.  I was there . . . “

“Why were you at her apartment at that time of night?” Jeor stopped him.  As far as he knew, all records from the crime scene were considered complete. 

For the first time that he could remember, Baratheon’s face showed more than a twinge of embarrassment.  “In the course of interviews and the coroner’s report yesterday, we learned some conflicting information and I went back to the apartment to see if I could find anything that would make sense of it.  I was tired; I sat down and fell asleep.  Miss Stark woke me up.”  Count on Stannis Baratheon to be embarrassed at falling asleep.

“I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall to view that!”  Seaworth said, taking out his notebook and pen, and sitting it on table to his left side.  He’d never noticed before that Seaworth was left-handed and wrote in the notebook upside down.      

The sound and smell of bacon sizzling in the cast iron skillet brought their attention back to Miss Stark making breakfast for them.  Again, they watched her like three saps who had never seen a woman before.  This time, he pulled them out of it.  “So, she woke you up.  Miss Stark, where had you been?”

Baratheon spoke up before she could answer.  “I’ve already interviewed Miss Stark and am satisfied with her answers.  She has already been through quite enough answering my questions last night.  Please allow me to go over what we know at this point and then you can ask any additional questions.”  Taking a quick glance at Miss Stark, she seemed relieved as she scrambled eggs in a bowl. 

“Miss Stark went to her cottage a day early and did not listen to the radio while there.  The first she knew of the murder in her apartment was after waking me up.  The victim was a house guest from Dreadfort in the North named Jeyne Bolton.  Mrs. Bolton is a long-time friend of Miss Stark.  She had long hair dyed a similar color to Miss Stark’s.   The husband is a Ramsay Bolton of Dreadfort.  Miss Stark believes Bolton was an abusive husband and Mrs. Bolton was in King’s Landing in an attempt to get away from him.  This puts Bolton as a suspect; however, we cannot be certain his target was actually his wife.  He may have been after Miss Stark.  Miss Stark admits that she and Mrs. Bolton did not expect Bolton to look for her in King’s Landing and would believe she was elsewhere.”

His detective’s synopsis seemed to be at an end, but before he could start asking questions, Miss Stark was at the table carrying two plates of eggs, bacon, and golden slices of toast cut on the diagonal with butter having been put on them before being put in the oven to brown.  She had even sliced strawberries as some sort of decoration on the side of the plate.  He saw Seaworth eye the strawberries and snicker . . . yeah, he didn't get that at home either. Baratheon stood as she sat one plate in front of Seaworth and the next in front of him.  Both Seaworth and he thanked her.  Baratheon stood to leave the table to help her before she stopped him.  “Please, I have it.  Continue.”  He’d never noticed Baratheon’s posh manners. 

Jeor began to dig into his food, as did Seaworth.   Having finished with the bulk of his story, Baratheon watched in silence as Miss Stark returned with two more filled plates, one for each of them.  She went back into the kitchen one more time to pour herself a cup of coffee, adding cream, and then returned to the table, sitting down in the kitchenette chair between Baratheon and Seaworth. 

“Miss Stark, why did you leave your guest alone at your apartment while you went to your cottage?”  Jeor could see swollen eyes and he didn’t want to doubt her grief, but he was a detective first and all things needed to be satisfied. 

Her cheeks reddened a bit as she put her coffee cup down after a quick sip.  “I had already hired a car and was packed when Jeyne arrived unexpected.  I anticipated that she would be with me for several weeks, possibly longer, while we figured out how to see to her future safety and welfare.  As for me, I am  . . . I am engaged and I . . . I wish to call the engagement off.  My plan was to go to the cottage to think it through.  I did not feel I could do that successfully with the distractions of the city.  I thought if I could decide how to settle my personal matter properly, I could . . . help . . . her . . . ”

Not that he was unsympathetic and if the girl talked about the death of her friend without waterworks, he would be suspicious.  Still, he dreaded the sight of them.  She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in her dress and wiped her eyes.  Jeor took a few bites of his eggs to allow her time to regain her composure.  “Why did you think her husband would believe her elsewhere?”  

Baratheon chimed in, no doubt trying to spare her with anything they had talked of previously.  “Mrs. Bolton was formerly in a relationship with Theon Greyjoy.  The assumption was that Bolton would think she went to him in Pyke and that he wouldn’t mess with Euron and Victarion Greyjoy, who are Theon Greyjoy’s uncles.”

Bolton would have to be one dumb sonofabitch if went into Greyjoy territory.  “Is Theon Greyjoy in the mob?”

“He used to work for my father as an accountant at Stark Lumber,” Miss Stark responded with her watery eyes a little more under control and a few sniffles.  “He moved back to Pyke shortly after Jeyne was married.  It was a disappointment to him.  It’s possible he has joined in his uncles’ . . . activities.  I hope not.” 

Suddenly, like a ton of bricks, Jeor realized that Baratheon had found her last night and they were both here in the early morning.  She had to have spent the night here.  He glared a bit at Baratheon.  “You brought her here?”

“I did,” Baratheon affirmed.  “That is part of what we need to talk about this morning.  If Bolton is the murder, it would be an advantage for him to think we aren’t on to him yet and haven’t discovered the victim was his wife rather than Miss Stark.  He quite possibly could have thought he killed Miss Stark.  He was infatuated with her.  Mrs. Bolton dyeing her hair red was to appease him at not having earlier success with Miss Stark.  If the murderer is someone else, and I haven’t ruled that notion out, then knowing Miss Stark is alive could only bring them back for a second try.  Miss Stark’s picture was in the paper and she has a modest amount of celebrity.  Putting her up in a hotel was not an option.  I realize here is not an optimum solution, but it could be if your daughter were here.”

Alysane was a trained policewoman and the prejudices against putting women in certain positions prevented her from doing more than typing and filing reports.  She would jump at the chance and it would get her off his back for a while.  Jeor had to consider if she was really in great danger here.  No one on the force could shoot better than his girl and he had no doubt about her taking a shot, if necessary.  “How many guest rooms do you have?” 

“There are three bedrooms here.  I don’t think it’s necessary she be here all the time during the day although that would be my preference.”

“DCI Mormont,” Miss Stark interjected.  “Mr. Baratheon and I disagree on whom I can tell about, well, about my being alive.  He would like me to keep it secret from my family and close friends.  Is that strictly necessary?” 

Right on cue, Baratheon’s jaw clenched and he could hear the grating sound of his teeth grinding.  Baratheon was right to fear for her safety.  Even more so, he feared the lawsuits should they not keep her safe. 

Just before he started to answer, he saw Baratheon and Miss Stark look at each other.  Her expression was either apologetic or more probably pleading and Baratheon’s brooding response was one of sheer misery.  Misery over what?   The idea of Stannis Baratheon being miserable over telling someone no was totally foreign.    

Glancing at Seaworth, Jeor could tell he saw it too and was trying to figure it out.  “Miss Stark, where is your immediate family?”

She focused her attention on him.  “I am told my brother, Robb, is on an oceanliner from Qarth.  He should be making port at White Harbor tomorrow.  My sister is at her boarding school.   At least this is what DI Baratheon has told me.”

“Well,” Jeor conceded, “He would know.  Baratheon, I’m going to allow a telegram to her brother.”

This brought a deepening scowl and a continuation of the miserable look.  “I don’t believe that is wise, Sir.  One of our suspects is Petyr Baelish.  While Miss Stark does not believe him capable, he has not been ruled out.  By his own admission, there is no one who can corroborate that he was home and there is a back door to his high rise that allows an exit or entrance to residents with keys.  It is well known that Baelish pays telegraph operators for information that may be of interest.  Since he has already given a radio broadcast about her death, every operator will know it is of interest, including the one on the oceanliner who would receive the message.  At best, I would like to suggest a compromise of allowing me to call DI Wyman and ask him to meet Mr. Stark at the docks and tell him in person, stressing that it is imperative, for now, that this be kept a secret.”

Jeor attempted to gauge Miss Stark’s reaction and was grateful when he didn’t have to guess.  “I wish it to be as soon as possible; however, I can agree to that.  It would probably be best that he is told by someone in person rather than by telegram.” 

“Knowing we need to keep this to a minimum, who else was on your list of those you feel it imperative to tell?”

“We are not certain my sister has been told anything.   I trust Robb is free to find out if she has and correct the situation if need be.

Baratheon spoke up again, “I would suggest to DI Wyman that he encourage Stark to visit his sister and pull her out of school for a week.  School authorities will be expecting this anyway and would question it not happening.  If she lets on that she has heard reports of Miss Stark’s death, then he can tell her the truth if he agrees to keep her with him at Winterfell while we go on with the case.”  It was obvious he had sat up half the night, if not all of it, trying to figure all these various logistics out.  Jeor was frankly surprised Baratheon bothered to bring him in on this and didn’t just try to intimidate the girl into submission.

“Won’t it appear suspicious to others if Stark and her sister don’t come to King’s Landing right away?” Jeor theorized aloud. 

Miss Stark, looking a bit pale, provided an option.  “I would be buried in the family crypt at Winterfell.  Frankly, there would be no reason for Robb to come here.  He could demand the body be shipped by air to Winterfell.  Jeyne’s father lives in the town there and Jeyne will need to be returned there.”

Seaworth stopped making notes and asked his first question.  “Won’t Robert Baratheon and Petyr Baelish insist on a funeral service here?”

“They’ll try,” Baratheon agreed.  “We need to solve this before it gets to that point.  I can handle Robert.  Baelish is another story . . . he’d want to make a public spectacle of it all.”

At that last, Miss Stark directed a frown at Baratheon, who met it with a look of defiance.  In some ways, these two acted like a couple who had known each other for years.  He was going to be mightily pissed off if he learned these two knew each other before yesterday and reign hellfire on Baratheon if it turned out they had more than a casual acquaintance.  “Miss Stark, when you found DI Baratheon in your apartment last night, why didn’t you scream or run for help at finding a man asleep in your apartment?” 

“I recognized him,” she supplied without hesitation.  “I had seen pictures of him in the paper, but mostly I recognized him from a picture Myrcella Baratheon, who is a close friend, had of him at her graduation.  She had pointed him out as her uncle, as well as her other uncle, Renly Baratheon.  My first thought was that he had come there to tell me something unfortunate about Uncle Robert.”

He could only be satisfied that she was telling the truth.  Neither of them tensed up at the question.  Still, their interactions were odd for people who just met.  There was no way he could see Baratheon having taken advantage of her sleeping in his house that night.  Unfortunately, over half the men in his squad room would, but not Baratheon. 

Bringing the subject back to whom to let know she was alive, Miss Stark added, “I would also like to tell Robert Baratheon and his daughter, Myrcella.” 

Jeor looked to Baratheon as he knew he would most certainly have an opinion on the subject and was ready to provide it.  “Trust me when I say I wish I could go there and tell him right now.  The trouble with that is twofold,” he moved his attention to Miss Stark and continued.  “You and I both know what a mouth Robert has got on him.  Since he became an MP, he has improved, yet I admit that the only hesitation I had in voting for my brother was concern at him keeping state secrets.  The part that concerns me most is that he has been so bereft since the news broke, everyone who comes in contact with him will notice the difference when he is no longer mourning.  I have no reservations about telling my niece except that it puts her in the position of lying to her father.”

“Your thoughts, Miss Stark?”  Jeor felt like a damned referee. 

She tugged at her lower lip and weighed the matter carefully.  “I don’t want Myrcella to lie to Uncle Robert either.  And I agree that he would be an easy read if someone were trying to do so.   What I do not agree with is anyone trying to go to that effort.  Have you a compromise, Detective Baratheon?”

“Give me two more days.  If we haven’t resolved this case and still feel you are in danger, I will bring Robert and Myrcella here and we may tell them.” 

“You might want to make sure you have a doctor nearby when he has that heart attack,” Seaworth wisecracked, getting a glare from Baratheon.  “Well, she scared the hell out of me! . . . sorry, Miss Stark.”

It actually got the first smile out of her that he’d seen.  “Well, Miss Stark?  Two days?” he queried. 

“If I must,” came her reluctant acceptance, which seemed to dial back some of the worry on Baratheon’s face.  “I must insist that the Poole family, Jeyne’s maiden name was Poole, be notified as soon as possible.  It is cruel to do this to them.”

Baratheon took in a breath.  “No one is in a hurry for this kind of news if they aren’t expecting it.”  No one argued. 

She made no other requests and he assumed the discussion was over.  “Thank you for that delightful breakfast.  I wish you could teach my wife how not to burn toast!”

“You are welcome.  Of course, the contents were from DI Baratheon,” she accepted, modestly acknowledging that Baratheon had paid for the food.  Based on his townhouse, he could afford it. 

“Now if you will excuse us, Miss Stark, I need to talk to my detectives in the other room before I leave.  May I say that, while I’m grieved for your friend, I am glad to be able to meet you.” 

Miss Stark tried to smile, yet made no comment, nor did he expect one.  “Good day, DCI Mormont . . . DS Seaworth.” 

In the foyer, he did his best to whisper, knowing he hadn’t the voice for it.  “Well this is one for the record books.  While I still don’t get why you were there last night, Baratheon, it’s a good thing you were.  Do you think the murderer is this Bolton character?”

“It’s possible, but I’m not ruling our other suspects out.  Seaworth can tell you what we found out yesterday that had us so completely confused.  I’ll return to the station when you send Constable Mormont back here to watch over her.  It might be best if the constable went home first to pack a suitcase, possibly change to street clothes.”

Mormont knew Alysane might whine about the babysitting assignment, yet deep down she would be glad to get out from behind the desk for a few days.  “I’ll get her back here as soon as possible.”

Baratheon directed himself to Seaworth.  “Dreadfort is one of those small towns where you can bet most of the local police force are drinking buddies with Bolton.  It’s safe to say any inquiries will be relayed to him immediately . . . if he’s at Dreadfort.  Check with the two airlines that fly out of KL Airport and the train  . . . request their manifests for two days before through two days after to see if he’s on there or any name that looks like an anagram or otherwise suspicious.”

“Got it.  Anything else before you get in?” Seaworth asked, taking notes in the instructions he had just received. 

“See if you can find out if Theon Greyjoy is in Pyke.  I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”  Baratheon could issue instructions with the best of them. 

With that, Jeor shook hands with Baratheon and walked out the door with DS Seaworth.  Once sure Baratheon couldn’t possibly hear them, he turned to the younger detective sergeant.  “Seaworth, what the hell were those looks those two were giving each other about in there?”

“I haven’t the faintest, Sir.” Seaworth shrugged. 

“If you did, you wouldn’t tell me anyway,” he mused aloud. 

“Probably not,” Seaworth admitted.  “Were it any other man on the planet, I would speculate that the man was totally infatuated with her and she was beginning to catch on . . . and wasn’t shutting him down.  However, this is Stannis Baratheon.  He might be feeling a touch of remorse over trying to browbeat her into doing what he felt was best over the who-to-tell business, especially regarding his brother.  He might have been trying to convey an apology that he couldn’t say.  For her part, she was probably trying to be nice about it.  Everything we know about the lady says she goes out of her way to be nice.” 

Jeor got a good laugh at the notion of Baratheon making puppy dog eyes.  “Can you imagine DI Baratheon chasing a woman?  More than likely, he’d run like hell in the other direction.” 

“At lightning speed,” Seaworth added before they shook hands are parted to make their separate ways back to the station. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because DCI Mormont isn't really capable of describing Sansa's dress . . . here it is:
> 
>  


	10. Chapter 10

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Stark

 

Sansa knew it was either keep her mind occupied and her hands busy or curl up in a ball and cry her eyes out for poor Jeyne.   If she were being honest, there was an element of personal fear, as much as she would like her host to think otherwise.  She didn’t agree with Stannis about needing to worry about Harry, Aunt Lysa, Petyr, or anyone else in King’s Landing . . . unless Ramsay was still in King’s Landing.  Staying occupied was going to be a problem in someone else’s home and unable to freely go out and about.  DCI Mormont’s daughter may or may not be company; it was entirely possible she would arrive and do no more than sit in the window and stand guard. 

There was at least one thing to do at the moment, and that was deal with the breakfast dishes.  As DCI Mormont, DS Seaworth, and Stannis talked in the foyer, she gathered all the dishes, scraped food remnants into the garbage bin, and set them into the sink to begin filling water.  Of course, she usually used gloves to wash dishes at home . . . looking around, there were no gloves here.  It wasn’t something she would have considered packing even if she had been in a more normal frame of mind last night. 

“You’re not here to cook and clean,” she heard Stannis say from behind her as he reentered the kitchen. 

Sansa didn’t turn around to speak to him directly, continuing with the dishes.  “As I told you about making breakfast; I need to stay occupied.” 

“That could be a problem,” he said, approaching the sink beside her and pulling a clean dishtowel out of the drawer.  Sansa automatically handed him the next plate she had rinsed.  “I don’t spend a lot of time here.  There isn’t much to do.” 

They washed dishes in silence and Sansa thought of how very odd it was that she wasn’t uncomfortable with him when there was no conversation going on.  Usually, she felt compelled to entertain or be interesting to whomever she was with.  Perhaps it was the situation.  She did appreciate that he wasn’t taking this opportunity to barrage her with another round of questions.  He had claimed there would be more he would need to ask and while nothing said to the other two this morning indicated that she was being treated as a suspect, she had no idea what they spoke of out in the foyer.  Still, he seemed less intense than last night, or even in the wee hours in the morning.  Sansa doubted he would relax his guard for a second if he thought it was remotely possible he had a murderer in his home. 

After the dishes were done, Stannis picked up the phone attached to the side of one of the kitchen cupboards while she rinsed out the sink and wiped off the stove.  Sansa heard him speak the number he was calling to the operator, “Plaza eight, one four nine seven.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Cressen,” he spoke without any intonation to imply it was, indeed, a good morning.  “I have a visitor at present and well, she is taking care of cleaning at the moment.  I will be dropping by to pay you; however, you may take a holiday for the next week . . . Yes, I am sure . . . I will see that it is taken care of . . . No, I do not have . . . no, it’s not like that.”  Sansa had seen Stannis Baratheon’s face redden, but it was positively inflamed.  No doubt his housekeeper had asked if he now had a lady friend.  “She’s family.”  At this point, Stannis turned to her with a guilty look on his face.  “Yes, well, I will be by later today . . . thank you  . . . good-bye.”

“Housekeepers are second mothers,” she said to him with a sympathetic smile.  “At least mine is.”

He took in a sharp breath.  “I hated to lie to her.”

“I noticed you kept it to an absolutely minimum,” she tried to assure him.  “And I do consider your brother and niece as family, so we could consider ourselves family in a strange sort of way.” 

Stannis leaned up against the counter.  “Speaking of Mrs. Marsh, she made quite an effort to clean up something that would have been horrific for her.  The uniforms got . . . some of the worst . . . she would have been on her hands and knees doing what she did out of respect and affection without knowing if anyone would pay her.  She lives near Mrs. Cresson.  How much do you normally give her a week?”

“Twenty five dragons a week,” Sansa replied, smiling that he would consider Mrs. Marsh.  She also noted that he said the words _thank you_ to his housekeeper over the phone.  Harry barely acknowledged a servant unless she was a pretty young girl, and even then it was to give her a look rather than to thank her.  Aunt Lysa chastised her for saying thank you to servants, saying it was not done among their class and it was true that Petyr barely ever looked one in the eye.  However, Stannis Baratheon was as blue blood as one could get.  His ancestors were former kings and queens of Westeros, and he was not known for politeness, yet he did thank his housekeeper and showed concern for the welfare of hers.  “I only have twenty dragons in my handbag.  I’m assuming I can’t write a check.  There is cash in my safe at the apartment . . .”

“Not what I meant,” he stopped her.  “I can take care of it. I just needed to know how much you pay her.”

Sansa was going to argue, yet there was no argument to be made that saw to Nan’s welfare.  “Thank you, Stannis.  I will pay you back at the first opportunity.” 

It took her a moment to comprehend why his reaction to her statement was to furrow his brow.  “I’m sorry for being so familiar,” she apologized, feeling disappointed.  While he did not find it necessary to act superior to those less fortunate than himself, he seemed to require formality. 

“Don’t be,” came the response she wasn’t expecting as she leaned against the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen from where he stood in a similar position.  “I can’t call you Sansa until this is over.  If I started that here, I could accidentally refer to you by your first name at the station, and that would be the surest way for there to be talk that I’ve taken too personal an interest in the case.” 

She didn’t inquire about what the repercussions of that would be; she could guess.  He would probably be pulled from the case.  “Well then, Detective Baratheon and Miss Stark it is.” 

“Until . . .” he began and then stopped, furrowing his brow again. 

“Until you have captured Ramsay Bolton and we can be friends,” Sansa found herself making the assumption out loud that that was what he meant to say.

“Until the person who is responsible is apprehended,” Stannis corrected, his voice unusually low in volume.  “And then I hope you will feel free to call me Stannis.” 

Sansa felt a sudden, unexplained rush that seemed to pass from head to foot, and she turned away in case she also blushed.  She very much doubted Stannis was a flirt, so that’s not what was going on here.  If it weren’t for one man, Sansa would say he was unlike any man she had ever known.  That one man that he reminded her of was her father.  Both only said what seemed to be necessary and neither were prone to laughter, which was why the memories of her father breaking into the occasional smile with a chortle to go with it were some of the most precious memories she had. 

Clearing his throat at the first silence that had become awkward, Stannis changed the subject.  “When I spoke with Mrs. Cressen earlier and told her my guest would be cleaning, I didn’t mean that seriously.  I don’t expect you to actually do so.  I will have to know something about your food preferences so I can pick up dinner, although I might be very late.  I know you like Dornish food, and there is a place that delivers on Forty-Ninth.  You just need to be careful that Constable Mormont accepts the delivery and you aren’t seen.  I have a tab there and can call ahead and say that Mrs. Marsh is allowed to use it.”

“How do you know I like Dornish food?” Sansa asked, trying to remember when she would have mentioned the preference or when they had a conversation about food.

“In your diary,” he explained, trying to shrug it off, but looking discomfited.  “I vaguely remember skimming something about Dornish hens with rosemary.”

Sansa found his choice of words amusing . . . that he _skimmed_ rather than _read_.  “While your reading my diary was in the line of duty and I can’t fault you on it, it does seem rather unfair that you know so much about me and my private thoughts.  It’s as if you know me better than anyone else and I know next to nothing about you.”

“I might have read your private thoughts, but I don’t know what motivated them,” he countered.   “Trust me, Miss Stark, you retain some of your mystery.” 

This pleased her until the thought that it wasn’t a compliment entered her head.  Sansa would have thought her motives easily understood; she never thought of herself as a particularly complicated person . . . unlike the man she was looking at.  It was as if she couldn’t help herself.  “What motives don’t you understand?  I have very few, if any, secrets.” 

Stannis was obviously weighing whether he wanted to take her up on her offer to enlighten him, and for her part, she wasn’t at all sure what prompted her to go down such a slippery slope.  Perhaps it was the niggling fear that she was there more to be observed and contained than protected.  Only a small part of her entertained that notion, yet it wouldn’t fully go away. 

“There is your engagement to Hardyng,” he finally said, his dark blue eyes seeming to penetrate hers from across the kitchen.  “Is it true you accepted him because he proposed publicly?  Is there more to it than that?”

Somehow, it pleased her that this was the source of Stannis’ lack of understanding.  Truth be told, she didn’t understand what made her accept either.  The only person she discussed accepting him only because of not wanting to see him humiliated in front of others was Myrcella, who would have been a source of information when she was thought dead.  Nowhere in her diary did she write about that night other than to say she was engaged.  “When I accepted, I meant to pull him aside that night when we were alone and tell him that I would allow our acquaintances to believe in the engagement for a few weeks, but then he would have to tell them the engagement was off.  I was perfectly happy for him to claim he broke the engagement as long as he did not imply I was dishonest or had, well, done something I shouldn’t.”

“Yet that’s not what happened,” Stannis pressed.  “If I did the math right, you’ve been engaged for six weeks.” 

Sighing, Sansa tried to figure out how to tell the next part without giving the detective in Stannis Baratheon reasons to suspect Petyr Baelish of being behind what happened to Jeyne.  “I found an advantage to being engaged, at least for the time being.”  Sansa considered her next words carefully although she knew they would sound somewhat vain.  If possible, she did not want to intimate that the engagement was a firm message to Petyr Baelish that he did not have exclusive rights to her time.  “While there are many in King’s Landing who surpass my wealth many times over, I am wealthy enough to be of interest.  I’m young and not hard to look at.  Being engaged keeps the interest of others at bay.”

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.  Clearly, he thought she was lying to him and Sansa couldn’t say that she wasn’t entirely.  It was partially true.  It kept Petyr Baelish at bay.   She now suspected that Stannis knew that much and was waiting for her to admit it.  “Alright, so it helped me put some distance between Petyr and me.  Petyr doesn’t want a wife, nor does he want a romance.  I’m not sure he . . . well, I’m not sure he feels romantically about women or men, even though I was told he was once in love with my mother.  He does want everyone to believe he is responsible for me in some way.”

“I wasn’t sure you realized it,” was Stannis’ only reply, his rigid stance relaxing somewhat. 

“I didn’t for a very long time,” Sansa admitted, not terribly proud of her naiveté.  “Doors were opening for me and charities other than the orphanage were seeking my services as a fundraiser.  I was meeting interesting people and it felt like I was making a life for myself here.  Uncle Robert opened a few doors for me, but I couldn’t see the difference between their motives for the longest time.”   

If Stannis thought her ignorant, he had the grace not to show it or to say so.  She wished to change the subject, but not to stop the conversation.  She went back to something she had started earlier before it was sidetracked.  “As I said, you know a great deal about me, yet I know only what I’ve been told about you, mostly from Myrcella.  So, DI Baratheon, it is only fair that you tell me something personal.  It doesn’t have to be some deep, dark secret or embarrassing incident.  It should, in the interest of fairness, be something you aren’t comfortable admitting.  For my part, I promise to keep what you tell me as private as I hope you are keeping the non-pertinent parts of my diary.” 

The good news, Sansa thought, was that he didn’t excuse himself and leave her standing there with no answer.  However, he didn’t exactly look like he was warming to her request to even the score a touch in what they knew about one another.   _Would he tell her about some woman in his past he was madly in love with and couldn’t tell her?_   More than likely, if he did accede to her request, it would be something totally banal, such as the time he was walking in the Royal Gardens and the wind blew a sandwich wrapper out of his hand, and he didn’t turn himself in for littering.  Then again, she did know enough about him to know that would bother him if he were to accidentally do just that. 

Stannis looked away from her in thought and then back.  “I’m not proud of it, but I spent years . . . most of my twenties in fact . . . being jealous of your father and his relationship with Robert.”

This was something she wasn’t expecting.  “May I ask why?”

His jaw clenched a little before he replied.  “Robert used to refer to him as his brother . . . still does.  I used to wish Robert would just call me one evening and ask me to dinner, or even call to ask how I was doing.  It’s not the relationship we have.”

“Did you ever call him and invite him to dinner . . . or call him merely to ask how he was?”

Stannis scoffed, though she didn’t think it was at her as much as at the idea of calling Robert.  “It’s not easy to do something like that when you believe you’ll be laughed at or, worse, just told no and hung up on.”

“Perhaps . . .” she tried to reason, hoping she could find some excuse for Uncle Robert’s standoffishness towards his brother, “. . . perhaps he was afraid you would laugh at him?”

This receive an eye-roll.  “You’ve known me for less than a day.  Would you be afraid of getting laughter out of me for anything?”  He took in a sharp breath.  “Does that satisfy as something personal?”

She hurt for him.  “It does and I understand more than you know.  Robb is in his own little world trying to be our father or at least prove he’s as capable as our father.  Arya always acted as though I was the nuisance who tried to make her do things she didn’t want to do.   I love them, but we aren’t as close as I wish we were.  It bothers me that I don’t have a desire to visit home any more than I do.” 

“Lately, I have realized how much at fault I am in the way our family is.  I was quick to criticize your aunt for her behavior and was even judging your adopted uncle for not doing more when I found out that Robert had quit drinking and Myrcella was left to deal with it on her own, and probably a lot more before he quit.  She’s never slighted me in the least, yet I haven’t been family to her.  I hope to make it up to her in some small measure, although it is probably too late for that.” 

Sansa started to say that she envied Myrcella having such an uncle and realized that . . . she could never look at Stannis Baratheon and think of him as _Uncle Stannis_ despite the fourteen years between them.  She felt a blush creep into her cheeks as she thought of how she was not at all thinking of an uncle or brother or the like when she looked at him.  Fearing he might notice she was blushing, for this man did not miss much, she pushed off of the counter and turned away from him to cross the kitchen to the icebox. 

“I don’t want you to pay for my meals while I’m here, yet we’ve already established I’m on credit for the time being.  Do you have an account at the grocer and do they deliver as well?”

“You don’t have to cook,” he began to protest.  “But, if you need something, the number is on the list of phone numbers taped next to the phone, as is the number to the station.  I do have an account there if you want to start making a list, I’ll call and let them know Mrs. Marsh has my permission to use the account as well.”

With her head still in the icebox, more for a diversion at the moment for she had already taken an accounting of the minimal contents when preparing breakfast, Sansa tried to make light of the situation.  “Next thing you know, there are going to be rumors about you and this mysterious Mrs. Marsh.”

“I plan to tell them she’s my grizzled old aunt from the Stormlands,” was his dry retort, prompting Sansa to stop peering into the icebox and look back at him to see if he was serious.  The only indication he wasn’t was a slightly raised eyebrow. 

“Hmmmm,” she joined in the joke.   “I’ll try to put some age into my voice,” she quipped, trying to sound like a little old lady.

Stannis gave a slight nod and there was actually a touch of mirth in his eyes.  “That should work,” he pronounced.  Sansa smiled the first genuine smile since she had first laid eyes on the man, and then felt guilty at any mirth under the current circumstances.  Still, it felt good to pull out of her grief for much of this conversation. 

He moved to the phone and she couldn't help but listen while Stannis called the grocer and was thankful he only said that a Mrs. Marsh would be calling with a grocery order and that she had his permission to use his account and that she didn’t have to try to use some fake voice.  Of course, the reality was that, if they questioned it at all, they might think he had a change in housekeepers either temporarily or permanently. 

Once that was done, Stannis asked her to follow him.  Based on the drawing room, kitchen, and guest room, and guest bath, he had no real desire to make his townhouse feel like a home.  Not that she expected him to decorate.  He could afford a designer who would work to his tastes.  There were the occasional odd representations of his tastes.  The artwork that hung on the stark white walls was well chosen and deserved to be displayed in a better setting.  If she had time, and she sincerely hoped it did not take long to catch Ramsay, she would try to talk him into letting her make a few dozen changes for the better. 

The room he brought her to was up the stairs.  The door was one she’d passed on her way to the guest room, but was closed.  Opening it, he led her into his study.  Much like Uncle Robert’s, it had a well-worn but good quality leather chair, the kind you could sink into.  As soon as they entered the room, she saw the reason he brought her here.  He had three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with hardback books.  “Perhaps this will help pass the time, at least for today,” he offered stiffly, looking as if he wasn’t sure she would appreciate the gesture when, in fact, she was terribly impressed and grateful. 

“Thank you, Stan . . . Detective.  I am quite sure my challenge will be what to read first.” 

If she hadn’t tried to put a temporary moratorium on laughter out of respect for Jeyne, the look on his face at the moment would have brought her at least a grin she would have had to take pains to hide.  Stannis Baratheon, for all the scowl, stiffness, and formality, looked like a little boy proud of being told he had done well. 


	11. Chapter 11

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

 

Requesting Sansa not call him by his given name was one of the most difficult, hypocritical, and absolutely necessary things he had ever done.  He thought of her as _Sansa_ now and it took effort to refer to her as _Miss Stark_.  Seaworth and Mormont were trained detectives and even Mormont’s constable daughter was likely to notice him blush or react in some telling way to Sansa using his given name or treating him with familiarity.  In less than twenty-four hours, he was already worried they would suspect something unusual about his behavior around her.  It was too easy for him to be mesmerized by those Tully blue eyes, even when they are red from crying.  He wouldn’t be the first detective in King’s Landing to be pulled off a case for taking too personal an interest.  Former DI Caswell was seduced by the Red Widow, Rohanne Webber, despite realizing it very likely she had murdered her four previous husbands.  There was also DI Costayne who had a physical relationship with one of the witnesses in the Frey murder case.   If he wasn’t careful, Stannis stood a good chance of being the first detective to ever be pulled off of a case for getting too close to a former homicide victim.   Some would argue she was victim, suspect, and witness all rolled into one.  He was absolutely certain she wasn’t a suspect.  As far as a witness, Sansa was a circumstantial witness at best.  What he was most afraid of was that she still the intended victim. 

Stannis hated to leave Sansa to go into the station.  It wasn’t that he didn’t think Constable Mormont capable of protecting her if it should come to that, which it shouldn’t at his townhouse.  To the chagrin of many of the uniformed police in King’s Landing, DCI Mormont’s daughter was rated as a marksman with higher scores than over two-thirds of the others who were rated.  She was taller and stouter than most men in the department as well, a natural effect of taking after her father, who was as big as a mountain.  His worry was that Sansa would be bored and fight him on staying out of sight.  However, Constable Mormont arrived with the latest copies of Harper’s Bazaar and Ladies Home Journal requesting Sansa assist her in finding a dress for the policeman’s ball.  Her father had briefed her well.  Before Stannis left, they were sitting at the kitchenette table with cups of tea discussing what type of skirt style would look best on the constable. 

Once at the station, he found Seaworth was on the phone with someone and motioned for him to come listen.  Stannis stood by his desk, taking in one side of the conversation.  “Have you ever seen her with bruises or evidence of his physically hurting her? . . . Uh huh . . . And you haven’t seen him in town for several days? . . . Thanks Dunk . . . I’ll do that . . . bye.” 

“Who was that?” Stannis probe, his jaw clenching.  He thought he had made it clear that contacting anyone in Dreadfort could tip Ramsay Bolton off, although it couldn’t be avoided for much longer . . . a day at the most.

“That was Marya’s Uncle Dunk . . . Duncan Tall.  He’s a former DI and I remembered he moved up north to Dreadfort.  As I suspected, he spends time at the pub with the local cops after they get off shift.  He was a good detective and knows when to keep his mouth shut.  I made it very clear this is one of those times.”

Stannis didn’t appreciate the detailed introduction and wanted facts.  “So?”

“Ramsay Bolton is the local force’s pain in the arse and he doubts he has any friends there.  He says this guy doesn’t make friends, and claims the local DCI . . . Dreadfort only has one . . . would love to have something he could make stick to him.  Problem is, his father regularly gives money to the mayor’s campaign fund and it’s this mayor’s pull that keeps Ramsay from prosecution for things like destruction of property, drunk and disorderly, assault and battery, trespass.  I didn’t ask about the wife right off the bat; I didn’t have to.  Dunk brought her up.  Bolton’s treatment of her and her leaving him is the number one rumor in Dreadfort.  He says one cop in the bar yesterday said Bolton hasn’t been seen in days.  I asked if he ever heard anything about Bolton physically harming her.  The talk is that he would publicly humiliate her and the assumption was it was worse when they weren’t in public.  He volunteered that everyone knew Mrs. Bolton’s fault in her husband’s eyes was that she wasn’t someone else.  Dunk wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be.  Of course, we know and I didn’t tell him.” 

After taking it all in, Stannis inquired about the results of his checking the various forms of public transport that Bolton might have used to get to King’s Landing.  Seaworth assured him he spent the morning going over airline, bus, and train passenger manifests and if he used one of them, he used an alias.  In all their conversations, they were both careful not to indicate that Sansa Stark was alive. 

“So do we take the risk of calling the Dreadfort PD?” Seaworth asked after giving a full accounting of all he had learned that morning.  “Dunk made it sound like Bolton’s offenses were mostly the local bully bad boy with an extreme temper.  It’s possible he’s escalated to murder.” 

He hated not trusting any fellow officer.  “Alright.  Call them and get his criminal history and see what they can tell you about his whereabouts.  Play good-ole-boy with them and say that a local socialite is concerned that he will come to King’s Landing now that his wife has left him, and she’s wanting protection.  If your good uncle knows Bolton wanted his wife to be someone else, you can imply you are talking about that someone else without saying a name.”

Seaworth grinned, more than likely at not being raked over the coals for making the call to his good uncle, as he picked up the phone. 

“Baratheon!” DCI Mormont yelled across the room of desks from the doorway of his office.  “Now!”

Stannis thought the bellowing was probably an act to get him behind closed doors in his office where he could talk more freely about the recent turn of events.  “We’ve got another problem,” Mormont informed him as soon as he was seated across the desk from him.  “I just got off the phone with Miss Stark’s aunt, Mrs. Arryn.  She’s now claiming she isn’t sure the body in the apartment was Miss Stark.  She is insisting we look for a birthmark on her shoulder.”

The surprise for Stannis was that he wasn’t actually surprised.   If he noticed the hair color difference from the portrait, and now that he’d seen Sansa he knew the portrait painter had been extremely accurate . . . her aunt could have.  If the portrait were years old, oils reacting to the elements might darken or lighten certain colors.  There hadn’t been time for that since the portrait was barely a year old.  For her aunt not to notice the hair color being wrong could be easily overlooked due to the horrific scene and shock.  He could buy the fact that she couldn’t get the image of what she saw that night out of her mind despite all attempts to erase it.  For her to capitalize on a birthmark that wouldn’t have been visible.  “Did she say anything about hair color or anything else other than the birthmark?”

“No,” Mormont barked.  “What are you thinking?”

Stannis needed a minute to process and Mormont wasn’t a patient man.  “I find it odd she only mentioned the birthmark.  It’s possible she only mentioned the birthmark because that would be a distinguishing factor.  What I find missing is her giving you any explanation of why she believes that wasn’t Miss Stark.” 

Mormont took a moment to process the information, or at least what he thought was going on in Stannis’ mind.  That this was proving not to be straightforward clearly had him irritated.  “You don’t trust the aunt.  Why?”

This wasn’t easy to answer and he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to make known.  He had to tell his boss something; however, trying to articulate what bothered him allowed him to get at the heart of the matter.  “I can see Mrs. Arryn wanting her niece to be alive, not because she is the grieving relative, but because Miss Stark provided her something she needed.”

“Money?”

“A man, possibly even men in the long run.”

Stannis quite enjoyed the utter look of confusion on Mormont’s craggy face.  “What man?  What the sam hell are you talking about?”

“The man would be Miss Stark’s fiancé, Harrold Hardyng.  While engaged to her, he was having sex with the aunt.  Miss Stark was going to break the engagement.  She meant to all along since her reason for accepting was his public proposal.  Mrs. Arryn realized she could keep Hardyng around longer if he was married to her niece.  That this is wishful thinking on her part is bizarre since she hasn’t given any reason for her belief it is not her niece . . . no recollection of something she saw that night to support that belief.  I would expect her next move to not be trying to find her niece alive.  I would expect it to be to find another young girl to share Hardyng with.  That would actually be simpler.” 

He wasn’t surprised Mormont looked at him like he was out of his mind.  “So . . . you don’t believe she remembers something, something she can’t put her finger on, that makes her suspect the body in the morgue isn’t Miss Stark?”

“No . . . I do not.”  The words he was about to say were not ones he had thought until this very second.  “What I believe is that Mrs. Arryn knows it is not her niece.”

If Mormont looked confused and irritated before, it was radiating off of him now.  “You think she is the killer?  That a socialite who probably never held a weapon, much less fired one, acquired a shotgun in an attempt to kill her niece only to realize she had killed someone else?”

Mormont hadn’t had the time to think it through so his error in logic was understandable.  As Sansa had brought up earlier, if he was right about Lysa Arryn’s motives for being in favor of Hardyng marrying Sansa, she had not motive for murder.  This proved it.  Since she couldn’t resist Hardyng’s charm, Mrs. Arryn would believe him capable of wearing Sansa down once she is back from the dead, so to speak.  There was only one way she could know Sansa was really alive.  “Remember there were signs that pointed to a man being with Mrs. Bolton.  The working theory after we found Miss Stark alive is that it might have been Theon Greyjoy, although that theory had a lot of holes in it.  I’m thinking now it might have been Harrold Hardyng.”

“The fiancé?” Mormont barked.  “If that’s true, then this girl has been associating with some seriously fucked up people!” 

Stannis couldn’t argue with that.  “Hardyng is one of those men who thinks it is his solemn duty to grace every woman he meets with his charm.  Looks and charm are all he’s got.  No money, no job . . . only an ability to manipulate women.  Miss Stark left a day earlier than planned for her cottage.  Hardyng probably came there expecting he could talk her out of calling off their engagement and found a damsel in distress.   I doubt Mrs. Bolton would have slept with her friend’s fiancé under normal circumstances, but she was vulnerable and after a bullying husband, extreme charm and someone who knows how to play women was something she was unable to resist.  Mrs. Bolton probably couldn’t resist dressing in one of Miss Stark’s more stylish nightgowns, wanting to escape being Jeyne Bolton for a night.”

Both men sat in silence, taking it all in.  It gave Stannis time to review the thoughts he’s just let run out in a stream of verbal processing.  Hardyng being the one to go to Sansa’s apartment that night made sense.  He sends Jeyne to the door when the doorbell rings, not wanting anyone else to see him there.  Jeyne Bolton is shot from the doorway and the shooter flees.  Waiting to hear the door close, Hardyng goes out and finds a body.  Perhaps he runs then or he stays behind to ensure the shooter has left the building.  Eventually, he goes to Lysa Arryn, scared and wanting to know what to do.  They know Sansa will eventually come back and everyone will know she isn’t dead.  Mrs. Arryn wouldn’t want to Sansa to ever know Hardyng had been in that apartment and had slept with her friend.  She wants to go there and hide the evidence of his being there only when she gets there, she is too overwhelmed at shock of what she sees and doesn’t clean up beyond putting dirty glasses in the cupboard and possibly straightening a few other items before the police arrive.  She didn’t think to check the bathroom.  It all made sense.  Now, she’s confused about where Sansa is and possibly has been to the cottage to look for her. 

“Sir,” Stannis begins to try to summarize, “If Hardyng was the man in the apartment with Mrs. Bolton that night, he would have run to Mrs. Arryn afterward like a boy running to his mother.  She came there to clean up evidence of his being there, but probably screamed at the sight.  His description, if he even gave her one, couldn’t have prepared her.  She was shaken enough that Dr. Luwin felt she needed to go to KLG.  Unfortunately for their plan to erase evidence of his having been there, she missed the toilet seat being up.  Her scream forced her to call the police for fear a neighbor would see her leave.”

“Fuck!” Mormont groaned in frustration, rubbing his forehead.  “So it’s impossible to keep Miss Stark hidden until we find out who killed Mrs. Bolton unless we can come up with a good reason to ignore her request to check for a birthmark.”  Then as an afterthought, “Baratheon, how certain are you about Hardyng being the man there that night . . . on a scale of one to ten, how certain are you?”

“One hundred,” Stannis heard himself say.  Fortunately, he believed it.  It was the first scenario that made sense with no real holes in it.  “We can keep her under wraps for one more day, claiming we are getting information about this birthmark and any other identifying physical traits from her siblings.  I called DI Wyman before I came here this morning.  Stark should get into White Harbor tomorrow.  The only good news in this is that it eliminates two suspects.”

Mormont asked the obvious question, “So that leaves Bolton and who?”

“Petyr Baelish, Sir.” 

That Baelish being a suspect was something Mormont didn’t want to hear was a given.  Stannis had avoided saying it to him because Baelish was not someone anyone wanted to take on.  If he catches wind he is a genuine suspect, he would rip the KLPD in his column, picking targets designed to get higher politicians to try to force them to stay away from him. 

“I sure as hell hope we find out this is Bolton . . . and soon.”  At least Mormont wasn’t trying to shut him down on continuing to consider Baelish as a suspect.  Stannis was thankful he wasn’t being put in a position of disobeying his DCI. 

Stannis knew that last statement was meant to be his dismissal.  Returning to the bullpen, he found Seaworth ready to report on the results of his phone call to the Dreadfort PD.  Seaworth handed him a handwritten list of Ramsay Bolton’s arrests.  All fines were paid for drunk and disorderly and a series of other minor charges.  The assault and battery charges that carried the possibility of being imprisoned all ended with no prosecution.   Seaworth took a note that a DI Manderley assumed those who brought charges were paid off by Bolton’s father.  “They are sending a squad car around to see if he is at home or at his father’s construction company.  They will also canvass their uniforms to see if anyone has seen him in the past few days.” 

“When will we hear back from them?”

Seaworth sighed, probably knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.  “They will call here if they find him at home or if anyone has seen him.” 

They were in a waiting game as far as Bolton was concerned.  “We probably should check with the Iron Islands PD to have them check to see whether Theon Greyjoy has seen him.” 

“Already done,” Seaworth replied.  “We’re waiting to hear from them too.” 

By the end of the day, the Dreadfort PD had not found Ramsay Bolton and his father admitted he had gone to try to find his wife, although he claimed to not know where he had gone to look.  The Iron Island PD reported speaking with Greyjoy, who told them he hadn’t seen Bolton.  There was only one more card he had to play at the moment.  Stannis called Robert and told him it was important that he and Myrcella meet him at his townhouse at seven o’clock.  If keeping the fact that Sansa wasn’t dead could only last one more day, not telling them tonight served no great purpose.  If the murderer was Petyr Baelish, he probably still had the shotgun in his penthouse.  To either prove or disprove, Stannis needed a search warrant.  Neither he, nor DCI Mormont had the clout to talk a judge into issuing that warrant based on a hunch.  He needed Robert’s powers of persuasion and political clout.


	12. Chapter 12

King’s Landing, 1940  
Robert Baratheon

 

“I’ve never been to Stannis’ place,” Robert observed to his daughter as they got into the cab outside the brownstone.  Members of Parliament had drivers who picked them up and took them to the House, and the older he got, the less he could stand to deal with King’s Landing traffic when he was driving. 

“You always summon him, Papa,” Myrcella answered back.  Robert didn’t particularly like her tone.  At least he invited his brother over.  It was better than Stannis had ever done for him.  Well, save when he first moved in and he invited them to dinner.  Myrcella and Tommen went and so did Renly.  Robert couldn’t remember what he was doing that night.  He remembered laughing when Tommen complained that it had been boring.

“Did he give you any hint about why he’s asked us both here tonight instead of coming to the brownstone?” she asked, fidgeting with a decorative button on her skirt. 

Robert recalled the exact conversation.  Stannis said he wanted to give them both an update yet needed to stay at his townhouse in case he got a phone call about the case.  He got the distinct impression Stannis couldn’t update him on the phone and told Myrcella so.  The only reason he agreed was that he needed to get out of the brownstone and away from that bottle.  This was the first day since Sansa’s death that he hadn’t let himself wallow in grief and guilt.  He wasn’t sure what more he could have done, and that bothered him just as much as if he knew what he could have done and didn’t.  Not only had he not protected her; he let Ned down. 

“I hope that means he knows who did it,” she said sadly.  “I can’t imagine who that would be unless . . . well, I still suspect her aunt although I think Uncle Stannis suspects Petyr Baelish.” 

“You were right the other day.  Baelish doesn’t like a quick kill,” Robert insisted to his daughter, with a snort.  “He wants slow torture and destruction by raking you over the coals with his column.  I can’t imagine Baelish owning a shotgun.  It wouldn’t go with his dinner jacket.  A small pistol, maybe.”

“Didn’t you once tell me men often inherit their father’s or grandfather’s shotguns, possibly several generations old?  You have grandfather’s shotgun.  The choice of weapon is where I have a difficult time thinking it is her aunt.”

She was right, well partly right.  It was actually his great-grandfather’s shotgun.  “You have a point,” was the best he could offer.  It was possible Baelish had some heirloom double-barrel he kept laying around his penthouse.   Baelish was a firstborn, and he came from an old family that probably kept up such traditions about the oldest son inheriting such things.  Stannis and he had a huge fight right after his divorce from Cersei about one of the boys inheriting that shotgun.  It was obvious Stannis objected to one of them getting it someday, yet he never would say why.  He knew Stannis downright despise Joffrey.  Hell, he was his own father and he didn’t like him much.  Not wanting Tommen to inherit it wasn’t like Stannis.  Even if he had a son, Stannis was the king who respected the right of a firstborn.  Oh well, he couldn’t say he ever understood Stannis. 

It took less than ten minutes to get to Stannis’ in the last of rush-hour traffic; Robert hadn’t realized he lived that close although he knew Stannis had walked there once.  It was in a good part of town and, observing it from the outside after paying the driver, it might actually be as big as his brownstone inside.

Stannis opened the door immediately and didn’t jump a mile or only looked slightly bemused when Myrcella put her arms around his neck and placed a quick kiss on her uncle’s cheek.  _When did they get so chummy?_  

“Why did you call us here?” Robert barked, and then felt bad for the harshness of his words.  “Do you know something?”  Just as he got the questions out, he realized he smelled fresh baked bread and other food smells . . . some sort of beef, such as a roast.  _Stannis’ housekeeper must be a really good cook._ The smell actually woke up an appetite that had been waning for several days.

He led them into the drawing room.  “I see you haven’t changed anything since you moved in, Uncle Stannis,” Myrcella noted; probably trying to tease him as much as she was able under the circumstances.  “I was, what, thirteen the last time I was here?” 

Looking around, Robert realized the room was very Stannis with its four plain black upholstered chairs and one sofa configured in the room in a U-shape with the sofa at the head and two chairs on each side with a coffee table in the middle.    

Stannis didn’t answer her and motioned for them to take a seat.  Robert sat down in one of the chairs that had arms to it; he hated chairs without arms.  Myrcella sat on the sofa and Stannis sat in the chair across the coffee table from him.  Whatever it was he had to tell them, he was struggling with it.  “Just say it,” Robert insisted, guessing he was going to tell them he had no leads and no idea who took Sansa from them.

“I need you to listen carefully,” Stannis started, running a hand along the back of his head.  “Before Miss Stark . . . “

“Sansa,” Myrcella insisted.  “She would want you to call her Sansa.” 

Robert noticed Stannis redden a little.  _The man couldn’t unwind enough to informally use the given name of a dead girl?_  “Before she was leaving to go to the cottage, she had a visitor,” Stannis continued.  “It was a friend from the North  . . . Jeyne Bolton.”

Myrcella’s looked in agony.  “Are you saying Jeyne killed her?  Did she blame Sansa for the failure of her marriage?”

“No,” Stannis replied calmly.  Robert was a bit unnerved by the way Stannis kept his eyes focused on him, even when he was answering Myrcella.  “Miss Stark decided to go to her cottage earlier than planned. She hired a car and was getting ready to go when Mrs. Bolton arrived, unannounced.  She had left her husband.  Miss Stark allowed her the use of her apartment while she kept with her plans for a few days at her cottage.”

Robert saw the color drain from Myrcella’s face and then he realized . . . was _Stannis saying Sansa was at her cottage at the time of the murder . . . was that what the fuck he was hearing?_   It was Myrcella who spoke next.  “Sansa told me . . . she told me that to try to make her husband happy, she dyed her hair and grew it out.  I’d forgotten that until just now.  Oh good gods!” 

“She’s alive, Robert,” Stannis informed him calmly, watching him intently.  “It was Jeyne Bolton that was murdered in her apartment.  The lights in the corridors of her building are so dim, she probably looked just enough like Miss Stark or perhaps Mrs. Bolton was the intended target.” 

Robert felt his heart pounding in his chest . . . he could actually hear it in his ears.  Stannis held his eyes as if waiting for a reaction, only he wasn’t sure how to react.  If she was alive . . . “Where is she?”

“I’m here, Uncle Robert,” he heard a voice he never thought to hear again coming from the stairwell and then saw legs, a body in a green dress, and finally the face of his god-daughter, Sansa. 

Robert rose from the chair, his eyes never leaving the apparition with a voice.  He didn’t truly believe it until slender arms were around his neck and a head with coppery red hair was buried on his chest.  Closing his eyes and breathing in, the scent of her was so familiar that tears began to run unchecked down his cheeks and he locked his arms around her.  “Please don’t let me wake up,” he heard himself whisper. 

“It’s no dream, Uncle Robert,” Sansa said in a voice muffled by his chest.  “I’m here.” 

When he finally opened his eyes and relaxed his hold on her, she stepped back and he looked down into those Tully blue eyes with his hands still on her arms.  _It really was her!_   He had a million questions for her or so it seemed.  For starters, “Why didn’t you come back earlier?  Were you afraid?”

Sansa looked at him, sadness and apology both present in her face.  “I didn’t know.  I didn’t listen to the radio . . . it wasn’t until I got back and found Detective Baratheon in my apartment last night that I knew what was going on.”

“What the fuck were you doing in her apartment last night?” Robert railed, looking over her shoulder at Stannis who was observing the whole scene with his trademark scowl.  Then it hit him he had known this since last night.  “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us last night!”

Stannis didn’t give him so much as a shrug.  “We have an advantage of the killer either not knowing she’s alive, or if it is Bolton, his not knowing we are in a position where he’s a suspect yet.  Right now, we need all the advantage we can get and mostly for Miss Stark’s safety.  I was at her apartment late last night, looking for clues . . .  grasping at straws.  Nothing fit and now we know why.” 

It didn’t explain why he couldn’t have come by the brownstone and told them.  Robert decided he would settle that with him later . . . privately.  Sansa pulled back from him and he watched as she and Myrcella embraced each other.  “I can’t believe it!” Myrcella exclaimed, the first to tear up.  “I know you feel awful for Jeyne yet I can’t tell you how . . . well, how happy this makes us!” 

Robert took a well-worn handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and tried to dry the tears that still made their way down his cheeks while his two girls cried on each other’s shoulders.  Stannis watched the scene with his usual stoicism, despite some glimmer of emotion in his eyes.  What it meant, he had no idea. 

Finally, everyone sat back down, Sansa joining Myrcella on the sofa.  Robert wished he had asked her to sit next to him, if only so he could occasionally reach over and touch her to convince himself this was really happening.

“What I don’t understand,” Myrcella said, sniffling a bit as she spoke, “ . . . well, it isn’t like you to have gone to the cottage even if Jeyne did arrive unannounced.  Don’t get me wrong, I am so glad you weren’t in your apartment even though I know how you must feel.  What I’m getting at is that . . . Uncle Stannis, you said something about the possibility that Bolton was the murderer.  I don’t understand how he could have predicted that it wouldn’t be Sansa answering the door?”

Even though her last question was directed at Stannis, everyone focused on Sansa for the first part and Robert hated to see fresh tears.  It seemed to make Stannis move up in his seat, although it was probably his waiting to hear an answer.  “I was going to the cottage early to avoid seeing Harry before I left as I thought he might try to come by.  I told Jeyne I needed to get away and think about how to best formally break the engagement without making a big scene that got into the papers or something Petyr would run wild with.  She told me she understood and that she could use a few days of lounging around trying on my new clothes like she used to when we were kids.  I did figure she would try on everything in the closet just as she used to.  She’d never tried on one of my nightgowns when we were children, but I never had anything that, well . . . might have tempted her.”

“So,” Robert interjected, looking at Stannis.  “Is that the current theory?  Harry Hardyng did this because she intended to break up with him?”

Stannis looked sheepish, which wasn’t easy with a scowl.  It was Robert’s turn to sit up in the chair.  “No.  He isn’t our suspect, although we do think he was here when it happened.  I haven’t had a chance to tell Miss Stark; Lysa Arryn called DCI Mormont today claiming she suddenly didn’t think the body in the morgue was Sansa.”  The look Stannis gave Sansa was apologetic.  “We’ve known since day one that there was probably a man in bed with Mrs. Bolton.  We now think it was Hardyng and that he had seduced a vulnerable woman, one to whom Miss Stark said she was calling off her engagement.  We think he was in bed with her when the killer rang the doorbell.  Once he heard the shot, he probably waited until he thought it was safe, saw what happened, and went to Mrs. Arryn.   She probably came back to try to ensure there was no evidence of Harry having been there and was too rattled to take care of everything.” 

“What makes you think he didn’t go back to Mrs. Arryn and confess he was with another woman, and she came back and did away with Jeyne?”  Myrcella argued, still thinking Sansa’s aunt the likely culprit. 

Stannis at least considered the question rather than burst forth with an abrupt answer.  “To be honest, that possibility didn’t occur to me until later this afternoon.  My sergeant and I discussed it while waiting for reports back from various inquiries we had out to the Dreadfort and Iron Island Police Departments.  The choice of weapon and the angle of the shot don’t fit a woman Mrs. Arryn’s height.  Mrs. Arryn is a good five inches shorter than Miss Stark.  For her to make the shot . . .” Stannis stopped and looked at Sansa, who was white as a sheet.  “I’m sorry,” his brother apologized and then moved his gaze back to Myrcella.  “The angle of the shot doesn’t fit someone her height.”    This considerate side of Stannis that stopped himself from a blunt answer in order to spare someone’s feelings was one Robert didn’t know existed. 

Stannis’ answer seemed to satisfy his daughter about the aunt, but she brought up a good point about Ramsay and who he planned to shoot in that doorway, and Stannis didn’t respond to that.  “Do you think this Bolton meant to kill Sansa or did he recognize his wife in the doorway and take the shot and run?” 

A sniffle from the sofa made Robert realize this was upsetting Sansa beyond what she could probably deal with.  He felt ashamed that Stannis seemed sensitive to her feelings when he stepped right back into talking about things that were upsetting her.  A part of him couldn’t help it . . . _he wanted answers dammit!_   “Sweetheart, I’m sorry.  You and Myrcella stay here and Stannis and I will go outside for a bit.”

“No!”  Sansa protested, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief that she got from somewhere when he wasn’t paying attention to her directly.  “It is hard to hear all this, yet I need to know the answers to the questions you’re asking for my own sake.”

Myrcella took Sansa’s other hand and gave it a squeeze.  “I know this has to be excruciating for you.  I can imagine you are terrified.”

“I have moments where I’m afraid of Ramsay finding me,” Sansa admitted.  “I feel safer here than at my apartment right now.” 

Up until now, Robert hadn’t given much thought to the fact that Sansa must have spent the night here and planned to do so again.   She may feel safe, but she had to be bored as fuck-all being here all by herself all day and then only have Stannis as her only source of conversation in the evening.  “You can stay at our place,” he offered.  “Bolton shouldn’t find you there either.”

“It would be one of the first places Baelish would look for her,” Stannis insisted, his jaw beginning to clench. 

Robert steeled himself for the oncoming sound of teeth grating.  “Dammit, Stannis.  She has a reputation to consider and you’re not here during the day so it’s hardly like she’s got someone who can keep her safe!”

“Actually, there is a constable staying here . . . a female constable.  She’s upstairs in her room right now.”  Sansa provided, exchanging a glance with Stannis that he didn’t fully understand.  “And before you argue that a female constable is no protection, I assure you I feel very safe with her around.  Detective Baratheon has taken great pains to make sure I am comfortable.” 

She didn’t leave much room for argument, although he was sure she was being way too generous with the idea that Stannis was taking even small pains to ensure she wasn’t bored here still.

“Miss Stark, I do need to talk to my brother outside.  I need some help from him on a political matter.”

“Of course,” she replied.  Despite her acceptance, it was obvious to Robert that Sansa was not happy about them obviously talking about her and the case without her present.  He didn’t blame her; however, he had a few choice words for his younger brother. 

Robert followed Stannis outside into the back garden where there was one small light just to the left of the Braavosi doors.  There was just enough moonlight for him to see to sit down at the patio table.  Stannis sat opposite him.  “Let me have it,” he offered. 

“You couldn’t have told me last night?” Robert growled.  He was tempted to take a punch at him, but Sansa . . . and probably Myrcella . . . wouldn’t appreciate it.  “Do you know the hell we’ve been through over this?” 

“I do,” Stannis claimed, again not reacting to his brother’s anger.  In the darkness, Robert couldn’t see his face yet Stannis wasn’t one to say what he didn’t mean.  “I had her protection to think of as my first priority.  I couldn’t risk you deciding who should know and who shouldn’t.  Lysa Arryn has forced our hand and we probably can’t keep it secret beyond tomorrow, so I decided to ask you and Myrcella here to tell you.”

Robert wanted to find fault with his reasoning and, deep down, he knew Stannis wouldn’t keep something like this from him out of a fit of pique.  He also knew all that watching he was doing while he was telling him she was alive was fear of a heart attack.  Knowing Stannis, he probably had an ambulance on alert around the corner.  No one could over-prepare more than his younger brother. 

“Do you have any other questions for me while it’s just the two of us?” 

That he most certainly did.  “Do I understand it right?  Your two suspects are this Bolton from up North and Petyr Baelish?” 

“They are,” Stannis affirmed.  “Miss Stark doesn’t believe it could be Baelish.  In fact, no one does.”  His brother paused and from what little he could see in the darkness, Stannis was debating about how much to tell him.  As one who kept state secrets, he knew Stannis had secrets of his own he needed to keep.  Robert didn’t like it, but he accepted it.  Whatever he was debating, he decided he had more he could tell or how he wanted to tell it.  “Baelish once referred to her as his creation.  I learned from Myrcella that Baelish used his column to dissuade men from showing an interest in her and it worked, until Hardyng.  Baelish would be aware that most thought them a couple.  Those that didn’t would have thought him acting as a father figure.  Either way, she was on his arm most of the time until Hardyng came along.”

Robert wasn’t born yesterday.  “He would find being replaced by Hardyng as an insult.”

“He would find being replaced by anyone as an insult,” Stannis corrected.  “That one’s arrogance has no limits and Hardyng seemed immune to his insults and there was nothing for him to lose by Baelish raking him through the coals in his column.  Everyone knows he is a broke womanizer.  I’m sure San . . . Miss Stark . .  knew it on some level, and the only reason she kept up the pretense of the engagement for as long as she did was because it told Baelish that he didn’t own her.” 

Closing his eyes and tears threatening to start again, Robert muttered, “I should have protected her better.” 

“Then you would have been another man trying to control her life,” Stannis reasoned and it wasn’t lost on Robert that it might have solely been to try to make him feel better.  Then again, that wasn’t something Stannis was known for so he probably meant it. 

“Would he seriously try to kill Sansa over Hardyng?” Robert asked for his expert opinion as one who studied crime and criminals. 

Stannis leaned forward, and Robert took it as a gesture of emphasis.  “He’s a psychopath and yes, I think he’s capable of killing her to keep someone else from having _his_ _creation_.” 

“Fuck!” Robert groaned, feeling a sense of real fear for Sansa.  “If I hear you right, even if it isn’t him this time, it could be him in the future.  Sansa deserves to be happy.  She wants to be a wife and mother someday.”

Clouds must have gone in front of the moon for it was suddenly so dark, he couldn’t see Stannis despite him only being seated a little over three feet across from him.  However, he heard the low, graveled voice in the darkness.  “She should have it.  And maybe that’s the key.  It’s possible Sansa the wife and mother in the suburbs will no longer be of interest to him if she isn’t paraded in front of him constantly at the social gatherings he frequents.  He didn’t kill Catelyn Tully once she was Catelyn Stark and out of his line of sight up North.”

“Maybe.  It’s possible he feared Ned.  If he’s anywhere near as smart as he thinks he is, he did.  If Sansa left King’s Landing, she wouldn’t be able to do the fundraising she does now.”  Robert wasn’t sure what sort of compromise Sansa would make because she loved working for her charities.  “Hardyng stood up to Baelish because he was too stupid to see the threat.  Makes me wonder if there is someone in King’s Landing strong enough to fight Baelish and win.” 

“It only takes one,” Stannis replied firmly. 

For his brother, that was a strange response.  It would take one man who could both win Sansa’s heart and be able to keep Baelish from being a threat.   

“I wasn’t using the need for your political help as an excuse to bring you out here.  I need you to use your influence with Judge Selmy to help me get a search warrant for Baelish’s apartment. “

Both of them know Baelish had embarrassed Barristan Selmy almost twenty years ago with a column implying a love affair between then Assistant District Attorney Selmy and Ashara Dayne.  There was no love for Baelish, but he wouldn’t hand out a search warrant without probable cause and Stannis was implying he had nothing that would normally satisfy the requirement to get a warrant.  “I’m hoping he owes you a favor or that you can capitalize on his hatred of Baelish and the fact that he, Ned, and you were friends at school.” 

“I will try,” Robert promised.  It was the best he could do. 

Stannis seemed satisfied.  “I can’t ask for more than that.” 

They rejoined Myrcella and Sansa, who were still sitting on the sofa having a conversation.  Sansa offered them a drink and some pie she made for dinner.  Robert realized Stannis would normally have a one-plate dinner that was warmed up and barely edible rather than the dinner he smelled when he came in the door. 

Sansa disappeared into the kitchen with Stannis hot on her heels to assist in carrying pie plates and coffee on a large, silver serving tray that Robert realized had belonged to Aunt Shireen.  Sansa was carrying a smaller tray with one dish of pie and one cup of coffee.  “I’ll be right back,” she said, disappearing up the stairs.  Robert guessed it was for the constable. 

“Enjoying the domesticity, Uncle Stannis?” Myrcella teased once Sansa was out of earshot. 

Stannis’ scowl didn’t change, but there was another round of visible reddening in his cheeks.  “She can cook,” was all he would say.   

Once Sansa had returned, Robert tried to lighten the conversation while they enjoyed her apple pie by giving in to something she had wanted for a long time.  He told her tales of her father when they were in school.  Her sadness faded for a few hours as he embellished a few stories to make them more amusing.  He had both girls laughing and Stannis even cracked an occasional smirk.  He wished he’d managed to give Sansa this sooner. 

Myrcella and he hugged Sansa tightly while Stannis gave strict instructions that they weren’t to tell anyone or even call her unless it was urgent.  He probably wasn’t wrong that operators were on Baelish’s payroll listening for anything of interest.  Robert hugged her one more time, holding her longer than one normally would for a goodbye.  He wanted to make absolutely sure this wasn’t a dream and that Sansa Stark truly was alive.  When he was satisfied, he let go of her and made for the cab Stannis had called for them. 

“So what did Uncle Stannis want to talk to you about?” Myrcella pressed once they were in the cab on their way home.  She avoided using names in case the driver was listening. 

“Wanted me to help him get a warrant.”  He hoped that was enough for her to go on, otherwise he’d have to insist she wait until they were home. 

She understood or he assumed she did because she didn’t pursue it any further.  “You know they’re falling for each other.”

“Who?” Robert asked her. 

“The couple we were just with.  I think he knows he’s going in that direction.  I don’t think she does yet.  When she does and manages to convince him of it, well, our family dynamic will be very interesting.” Myrcella said, taking care not to use names. 

“Oh Sweetheart!” Robert laughed.  _The imagination of young girls!_   They were home before he stopped laughing.  Robert paid the cab driver and walked her up the stoop of the brownstone where Mrs. Caswell already stood waiting to open the door for them.  He had no idea where she could come up with something so insane. 

Bidding her good night and kissing her on the forehead, Robert was still chuckling when he walked into his study and flipped on the light . . . until he saw the bottle on his side table.  Picking up the sealed bottle, Robert took a good long look at the amber liquid inside, swallowing hard.  The sudden desire for a drink pulsed through is body . . . a celebratory drink that Sansa was alive . . . a drink to stave off the fear that it could be short lived if Baelish really was a threat.  But no, he needed his wits about him to convince Judge Selmy to give Stannis that search warrant in the morning.  _What do we say to the bourbon bottle?  Not today!_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Joey & Tommy . . . I will try to work the birthmark inspection into a future chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

Stannis had always been told that a body needed at least seven hours of sleep, and that eight was better.  The most he could get was five hours, and that was often a struggle.  His habit was to wake at four fifteen every morning.  There was no alarm clock; it was when his eyes opened and his legs moved off of his bed.  After giving in to the call of nature, he would do one hundred each of pushups, sit-ups, and pullups from a bar he had installed for that purpose.  After a quick shower, he would change and go downstairs to fix a breakfast of oatmeal, a boiled egg, and coffee, and then get in his Buick and cross town to the police station.  The routine seldom varied and he was usually sitting at his desk by a quarter to six.  Stannis liked routine; he liked being in control of as much of his life as possible. 

The previous morning had seen a break from routine. Stannis expected today to be back on track.   Judging from the contents of his icebox, Sansa would make a full breakfast for herself and Constable Mormont, and they would hopefully find ways to occupy the day.  He wasn’t sure what time Robert would call Judge Selmy, but he wanted to brief Seaworth and prepare a group of about six uniforms to go with them for the task as soon as the warrant came through.  DCI Mormont would squawk about not treating this search warrant with the usual lack of concern for making a mess of a suspect’s home.  Stannis didn’t care if they threw everything in a pile in the middle of Baelish’s penthouse, yet he knew the instructions for care and caution would be forthcoming. It would make the search twice as long to properly conduct. 

While doing his pushups, Stannis heard water running from the guest bathroom.  He was impressed that Constable Mormont was up this early, although he hoped she didn’t expect him to see to her breakfast.   Once he was out of the shower, Stannis realized he was smelling coffee and as he dressed, the smell of sausages was added.  It was amazing to him how women seemed to find it easier to make themselves at home wherever they were.  Sansa had certainly taken over his kitchen yesterday and the constable seemed to find no problem in doing so this morning.  Stannis didn’t expect that enough breakfast was being made for him, yet the smells had him hoping there would be. 

The first thing Stannis did when he walked into the kitchen and realized that it was Sansa at the stove and not Constable Mormont was look at his watch.  It was a few minutes before five o’clock.  She wasn’t as immaculately dressed as yesterday and yet, if someone asked his opinion, Stannis found this more casual Sansa . . . just as appealing if not more so.  Her copper hair was pulled back into a pony tail that hung down her mostly bare back left half exposed by the dark pink halter top that gathered at her neck and around her waist.  He berated himself for appreciating how the pair of trousers she wore showed off her tiny waist before billowing out into legs that could almost look like a long skirt.

Turning her head slightly to acknowledge that she knew he was there, Sansa briefly said good morning before returning her attention to the sausages. 

Stannis came further into the kitchen where he could see from the amount of eggs already scrambled in a bowl and sausages in the skillet that she was, indeed, cooking for more than just her.  “You do not have to get up this early and you certainly do not have to prepare breakfast for either Constable Mormont or me.” 

“The coffee is ready if you would like a cup,” she informed him, clearly indicating she did not agree, nor would she argue.    

As he walked up to the counter, he noticed the back of her left shoulder and the small cylindrical red mark . . . the birthmark.  Stannis took a step closer to her in to inspect it while she continued to turn sausage links in the skillet.  Without thinking, he took his forefinger and ran the back of it along the side of the mark, noticing how the light red stood almost perfectly shaped cylinder stood out against her creamy white skin.  His finger trailed down to where her skin met the dark pink fabric of her halter before he realized she had turned her head, her light blue eyes watching him.  _Why can’t I move away?  Why_ _isn’t_ _she_ _moving_ _away_ _from_ _me?_   For several seconds, their eyes locked while that one finger rested against her skin.   His breathing became erratic as he leaned closer to her, taking in the light scent he’d learned was hers. 

“Good mor . . . ning,” Constable Mormont cut in, causing Stannis to jump back, his jaw clenching and eyes going wide. 

Sansa was the first to answer her.  “Good morning, Alysane.  Detective, would you pour her a cup of coffee after you pour yours?  The sausages are finished, so I will set out breakfast as soon as I scramble the eggs.  I hope scrambled eggs are acceptable?  Oh . . . there’s orange juice in the icebox if you’d prefer that or want both.”  She was rambling and everyone present knew it. 

Grateful that pouring coffee allowed him to keep his back to the constable until he was able to get his bearings, he accomplished the task and handed her one of the mugs when he was finished.  “Constable, Miss Stark has a birthmark on her shoulder that was mentioned by her aunt in a conversation with your father yesterday.  Would you write a report on the location, shape, and size for me please, and I will add it to the files?”

“Yes, DI Baratheon.”  At least she had the sense not to smirk at him.  If she mentioned it to DCI Mormont, the most he would volunteer was that he was looking at the birthmark Lysa Arryn had mentioned.  It was true enough.  If the constable pressed him for more than that, he wouldn’t lie about it.  Stannis avoided lying unless it was to protect someone or to trap a suspect into an admission.   Admittedly, he avoided telling the whole truth upon occasion and this would be one of those occasions should he be allowed to get away with it.  However, he wasn’t sure what he could tell his chief for he wasn’t entirely sure he knew what just happened.  At some point, privately, he would have to apologize to Sansa.  He had no idea why she didn’t ask him to move away or to move away herself, except that she might have burned the sausages.  His momentary lack of self-control was inexcusable on his part. 

In a matter of few minutes, all three were seated at the kitchenette eating sausages, eggs, and toast with honey.  There was no missing Constable Mormont’s eyes going back and forth between Sansa and him as if trying to make some assessment of the situation she had witnessed earlier.  There was nothing he could do about it now.  He finished the meal before they were finished with half of theirs and took his empty plate to the sink.  “Constable, may I ask that you help Miss Stark wash up after she was kind enough to make breakfast.  I am sorry I can’t stay to assist, but I have to get to the station.” 

“Yes Sir,” came the expected reply.

Stannis addressed himself to Sansa, but not looking directly at her.  “Thank you for breakfast, Miss Stark.  I will see you both later this evening.”  With that, he grabbed one of his three fedoras from the hall closet and left to make his way to the station.

A smug DS Seaworth sat at his desk, clearly enjoying the rare occurrence of being the first of the two of them to arrive.  “Let me guess,” Seaworth quipped.  “Another breakfast?” 

Stannis scowled, not at having had a far better breakfast than he was used to, but at Seaworth feeling the need to bring it up.  “I can’t believe she got up before you left!” he kept going.  “Your hours have to be tough on a socialite.” 

Branding her as a socialite, as if that was all she is, made him scowl even more.  A few days ago, that had been exactly how he thought of her . . . the girl who used charity as an excuse to rub elbows with the pretentious who couldn’t seem to just take out a checkbook and write a check to give to a cause without cocktails.  It wasn’t at all the way he thought of her now.   

Seaworth doubtlessly sensed he wasn’t in the mood for banter, not that he ever remembered being in such a mood unless it was to challenge a suspect and banter was a weapon.  “Will your brother be talking to Judge Selmy this morning?”

“He’s going to try to get in touch with him before he goes into court,” Stannis said, glad he didn’t have to force a change of subject.  “I want to pick some uniforms to go with us.  Do you have any recommendations on who are the most thorough?”

Rattling off a series of names, Seaworth also wrote them down on a pad of paper before him.  “What else are we looking for other than the shotgun?”

Stannis wished he had a good answer to that question.  Baelish was too careful to take anything else from the apartment.  “All of his clothes would go through a laundry service of some sort.  There would have to have been some splatter that got on him.  The only other thing I can think to look for would be to pay careful attention to his clothes to look for blood or any other particulates, even on handkerchiefs.  That said, I have to think he got rid of any soiled clothes immediately . . . I’d love to be wrong.” 

“I can’t imagine he will take going through his clothes well,” Seaworth chuckled, continuing to make notes. 

Petyr Baelish wasn’t going to take any of it well.   As much as he wanted to keep Sansa being alive a secret for as long as possible, Stannis also enjoyed envisioning the look on Baelish’s face when he learns she is alive and well.    

“Have you told DCI Mormont about this yet?”

Telling the chief wasn’t something he looked forward to, and he saw no reason to tell him before he found out whether Robert was willing to play the old-friend card with Selmy.  Otherwise, getting a warrant was impossible.  It may yet prove impossible.  If he were a judge, he probably wouldn’t grant one on so little.  “I won’t until I hear from Robert.” 

Another hour passed with a few detectives arriving into the bullpen of desks and chairs before Stannis’ phone rang.  “Baratheon.” 

“It took some persuading, but Selmy is going to do it,” Robert said on the other end of the phone, foregoing any personal greeting.  “You need to call his clerk to give him the specifics for the warrant.”

Relief flooded through him.  “Thank you, Robert.”

“Don’t thank me . . . just get the bastard if he did it.”  Stannis was preparing to ring off when Robert added, “And if he didn’t do it, find something else to put his sorry ass away for.”  Never had he been in such accord with his older brother. 

Stannis made the call to the judge’s clerk and gave him the necessary information, and was told he would have the warrant within the hour.  Now, it was a matter of telling DCI Mormont, who he did not expect to be the pleased.

Rapping on the glass portion of the chief’s door, his ginger head raised up from a stack of reports on his desk and motioned for him to enter.  “Any progress?”

That would be a matter for interpretation.  “I am waiting for a search warrant.”

DCI Mormont looked confused.  “You’re getting the Dreadfort PD to execute a search on Bolton’s place?  To look for the shotgun?”

“I’ll start that process before the day is out, but this warrant is for Petyr Baelish’s penthouse.” 

Stannis waited for the storm and he didn’t have to wait long.  “Are you out of your fucking mind, Baratheon?”  His bark was so loud, Stannis was sure he could be heard out on the street.  “You don’t take on someone like Baelish without the Police Commissioner’s consent!  Baelish has the power to give us a public relations nightmare, and he’ll do it to if you take him on.  If you don’t find what you’re looking for, you’ve given him all the ammo he needs to rake you and this department over the coals.”

It was the sound of his teeth grinding that made Mormont stop.  “So what you’re telling me is that all citizens are not equal in the eyes of the law.  That, because he is on radio and print, he has special privileges.  This is murder we’re talking about!  You sat down at a table yesterday and ate breakfast with a woman he may have been trying to kill.  If he is the one, then he’ll try again.”

Exasperated, Mormont wasted effort in moving from anger to trying to reason with him.  “You’ve got the warrant.  You don’t have to execute it right away.  Make sure Bolton is not your man first and then I won’t try to stop you.  Hell, I’ll go with you.”

There would be a week before the search warrant was no longer valid, but Stannis didn’t want to delay.  “Why wait?  He’s already had time to get rid of bloody clothes and possibly the shotgun.”

“If you won’t think of your promotion and the fact that messing with him could make a sure thing an impossibility, then think of my retirement,” Mormont was practically pleading now.  “He won’t stop at just you, you know.  Who the hell did you get to sign off on a warrant anyway?”

“Judge Selmy,” Stannis provided, trying to contain his temper.  He knew Mormont would know Robert was involved once he heard the name.  That they had a long-standing friendship was well known. 

Mormont picked up the phone.  “Get me Commissioner Naharis.”  Holding his beefy hand over the received, the chief peered at him.  “You’re not going without his permission, Baratheon, so you might as well go and wait at your desk until he gives me an answer.”

“May I talk to him?”  Stannis was more than willing to make the same arguments that Petyr Baelish should not be above the rule of law as any other citizen.    

“Hell no!” Mormont cut him off.  “Now get the hell out of my office until I call you back in here.” 

Whether Seaworth knew they weren’t leaving for Baelish’s penthouse any time soon was from hearing Mormont through his office walls or from the scowl Stannis was sure was one of his more ominous ones was irrelevant.  “I’m on the paperwork to request Dreadford PD’s assistance in executing a search warrant there.” 

His niece had hit on the main reason he couldn’t get behind Ramsay Bolton as the shooter.  If he gone to Sansa’s apartment looking for his wife, he would have been looking for two people in that apartment.  Bolton would expect Sansa to answer the door, shoot her, and then come inside looking for his wife.  There would have been no place for Hardyng to hide that an abusive husband wouldn’t look.  This shooter wasn’t looking for anyone other than the person who answered the door. 

With the argument that Bolton was only expecting Sansa and that she was the intended victim, they would have evidence of him looking for his wife afterward.  The Iron Island PD had seen no sign of him and Theon Greyjoy claimed he would let them know immediately if he saw them.  Seaworth countered that the Greyjoy mob would more than likely kill him and get rid of the body if he showed up, and no one would ever find out the truth.  There was truth in that, just as there was truth in Ramsay Bolton being suspiciously absent from Dreadfort. 

Stannis stared at the outer walls of Mormont’s office, waiting and going over all that had been done to try to recover the shotgun.  Uniforms had searched the corridors that night and the next day of Sansa’s building.  He further had trash dumpsters in the local area checked for the next two days with no luck.  It was a case where she had enough celebrity to allow the manpower to be used without question.  The shotgun could have been dumped in Blackwater Bay.  Finding it would be the best possible outcome, but it wasn’t his primary purpose for searching Baelish’s residence.  The main reason was to get him to do exactly what Mormont feared . . . get angry and, with any luck, say or do something in that anger to tip his hand.  Like Robert, he would be satisfied with finding something else to pin on Baelish if it put him behind bars and removed the threat he posed. 

It was over an hour before Mormont came out of his office, having held several conferences with his other detectives on other cases.  During that time, a uniform brought him the warrant signed by Judge Selmy.  He was ready to go if Naharis had the balls to give him the green light. 

“It seems Commissioner Naharis agrees with you that Baelish should be treated like any other citizen of King’s Landing,” Mormont relayed in a huff.  “Then he reneged on himself by saying that you and the uniforms are to handle his possessions with kid gloves. “

That much was just as he suspected.  “The uniforms have already been briefed and are ready to go.”

Mormont’s brow furrowed and his concern evident.  “I wouldn’t be so anxious to do this, Baratheon.  That little bastard has broken many a strong man.  He’s going to come after you, your brother, me, the commissioner  . . . hell, the whole damned force if he can.   Even Seaworth isn’t immune.  You ready to do that to a man with a young family?”

“No one else will be in his sights but me,” Stannis affirmed.  “The only other person he might go after is Robert.  We’re both ready for him.” 

Mormont’s eyes narrowed and Stannis thought he might have divulged something he shouldn’t have with that last statement.  Even Seaworth looked at him questioningly, although not entirely sure why.  They were ready for the likes of Petyr Baelish.  The common man may enjoy hearing and reading Baelish when he takes on someone with money, power, or fame.  But he’s one of those people too, and he can be ruined just as easily as he is capable of causing ruin. 

Half of the drive to Baelish’s penthouse was accomplished in silence, which was not uncommon for the two of them.  Still, he probably needed to assure Seaworth that what Mormont said was not true.  Baelish would not come after him.  However, if his sergeant was worried about it, Stannis would accept him sitting this one out and told him as much. 

Seaworth looked affronted that he made the offer.  “That little asswipe doesn’t scare me no matter what the chief says.  What’s he going to do . . . have me audited?  I wish he would . . . might get more of a refund if the big guns take a look at it.”

Never having been one to make the use of profanity a habit, he often wearied of the seemingly required use of it by others.  However, he quite enjoyed hearing the term _asswipe_ applied to Baelish.  He could see him mentally using it for quite some time. 

Entering the uptown high-rise, Stannis immediately showed the search warrant to the doorman and detailed a uniform to stay with him for the next fifteen minutes to ensure he didn’t call Baelish to warn him of their arrival.  Stannis, Seaworth, and five other uniformed policemen chosen by Seaworth rode the elevator up to the top floor in silence.  As expected, the front door of the penthouse was opened by Baelish’s maid.  “How may I help you?” she asked, alarmed to see the uniforms in the hallway behind him. 

“We met earlier.  I am DI Baratheon and we are here to execute a search warrant.  Is Mr. Baelish at home?”

“Yes, but . . . “

Stannis didn’t wait to hear any more.  The petite woman had no choice but to stand aside as he started through the door with the rest of the crew following him.  The uniforms fanned out and began their ordered search as the maid disappeared down a hallway to return with Petyr Baelish.  He was dressed in gray trousers and a green silk smoking jacket over a white shirt with a cravat of the same color as the jacket.  There was no mistaking the look of utter delight in his eyes as he took the warrant from Stannis while the maid nervously tried to collect hats from everyone present. 

“Well done, Baratheon!” he smirked, the delight in his eyes changing to menace.  “A very interesting choice in the judge to sign the warrant.  No doubt your brother had a hand in this.” 

“You said you would be insulted not to be considered a suspect since you knew Miss Stark so well,” Stannis threw his earlier comments back at him.  “This is an obvious part of being a suspect.” 

Baelish fixed his gray eyes on Stannis, having to look up to do so.  “I’m surprised you managed to tear yourself away from Sansa’s apartment to be here yourself.  I was going to suggest to the landlord that he charge you rent given the number of times I saw your Buick outside of the building.” 

This was the sort of information Stannis was looking for.  “Any particular reason you were passing by so often?”

Baelish’s mouth widened slightly.  “It’s on my way to the radio station and, as you would expect, I look at her building and remember her.”

“Remembering her as you pass by requires you to note what cars are there?”

Undaunted, Baelish was ready to banter.  “I am a student of human nature, not that yours is particularly human.”

Stannis thought of some barbs he would like to volley back, but there was a big difference between giving him ammunition to make a claim that he was insulted versus being able to prove he was merely questioned as any other suspect would be.   Besides, he wanted to get to the part he had planned most carefully.  “Is it true you deliberately targeted Willas Tyrell in one of your articles because he showed an interest in Miss Stark?”

“I merely sped up events that would have taken place in due course.  Sansa had a soft heart and a weakness for fools and idiots, as evidenced by her giving the likes of Tyrell and Hardyng the time of day.  She would have grown bored with Tyrell eventually and the same goes for Hardyng.”

Stannis considered asking him how Willas Tyrell qualified as a fool or idiot save one incident of bad judgement, but thought better of it.  “I notice you didn’t write an article on Hardyng.  Any particular reason he was spared when Tyrell wasn’t?”

Baelish’s eyes trained in on the uniforms that around his collectables.  “There are valuable pieces in that case, some of which, on their own, are more than one year’s salary for the entire KLPD.  The bill for any damages could require the police department to cut salaries, possibly even jobs, to recompense.  And you, over there, be careful with that clock!” 

Stannis glared at him, waiting for an answer.  “Let me see . . .” Baelish began. “You asked why Tyrell and not Hardyng.  Simple.  There was nothing interesting about Hardyng to write.  The man is determined to bed every woman he comes in contact with.  Finds one who won’t sleep with him.  Gets engaged to her as a means of having her.  Woman would eventually figure it out and send him on his merry way.  Very dull.  I couldn’t even think of a good lie to make it interesting.”

“Was there any man Miss Stark could have shown an interest in that you wouldn’t have tried to stop in some way or another . . . if you believed she wasn’t going to end the relationship on her own?”

Raising an eyebrow, Baelish continued to smirk.  “Seriously, Baratheon!  If my poor Sansa wasn’t dead, I would get it in my head that you were checking to see how I react to you as a contender.  Trust me.  You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

The last part of Baelish's statement wasn't something he enjoyed hearing, although he believed it to be true.  “Sounds like you are avoiding the question to me.”

“Yes,” Baelish affirmed, his smirk changing to a sneer.  “No one was good enough for her.”

“Except you,” Stannis prompted. 

“How very astute of you to notice,” Baelish countered drolly.  No one could convince him this man’s way of talking about someone he claimed to have cared for was normal so soon after she had been brutally murdered, or at least he’s supposed to believe she has been brutally murdered. 

Stannis put everything he had into looking incredulous.  “Did you really see yourself as her husband or lover, Baelish?”

“If that’s what she needed,” he shrugged, for the first time looking less than the picture of a man totally at ease. 

To most, it would be a strange answer.  Stannis understood it for what it was and so, by now, would Sansa if she heard him say it.  Petyr Baelish wasn’t interested in sex or a romance.  If it took providing her with sex to maintain her as his possession, then he would have done so to the minimum degree possible.  The part he was leaving out, the part Stannis wished he could get him to confess was that he knew she wanted those things, but having them with him was never going to satisfy her. 

Stannis decided to go for the jugular.   “What made you think Miss Stark would accept that from you when her mother refused the same offer?  Is that the attraction to Miss Stark . . . that she is her mother’s daughter and you can try to convert a loss to a win?”

It worked, at least partially.  Baelish’s eyes narrowed and the color drained from his face.  His reply was neither swift, nor pithy.  Unfortunately, he had the sense not to fall any further into the trap.  “You are beginning to bore me, Baratheon.  I believe the last time you were here, I said I wouldn’t answer any more questions without an attorney.  It’s past time for me to call him and inform him about this effort to grasp at straws.” 

“You do that,” Stannis encouraged, hoping his face showed he considered this a victory.  “Meanwhile, you must stay in this room or have an escort with you to ensure you don’t tamper with or remove anything.”

Baelish waved a hand before him.  “Pick one to be my escort so I can go back to my study.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Seaworth offered with a look just short of contemptuous.  It couldn’t have left Baelish in much doubt of Seaworth’s opinion of him. 

Before he disappeared down the hallway with Seaworth, Baelish stopped and turned back to Stannis.  “Don’t miss my column tomorrow, detective,” he said, as if he were offering a gift.  “I’m sure you will find it very interesting.” 

Stannis was quite sure he would. 


	14. Chapter 14

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Stark

 

Stannis had been about to kiss her, she was sure of it . . . _or was she?_ The second he touched her, she wanted him to . . . she had turned her head in an invitation for him to turn the caress of her shoulder into a kiss.  As Sansa sat pretending to read one of the books from Stannis’ library while Alysane studied for promotion, she knew desiring a relationship with Stannis Baratheon was insane in a variety of ways.  There was the insanity everyone would see; the fact that he was on a case to solve Jeyne’s murder and protect her from Ramsay.  Everyone would think she was romanticizing him with hero worship.  If Stannis wanted a relationship with her, the accusations that would be leveled at him would be far worse.  Stannis would be accused of taking advantage of a vulnerable girl, and due to their age difference, they would call her a girl in comparison to him.  He would also be chastised for inappropriate feelings for someone involved in one of his cases.  And again, with the age difference, some would refer to him as a dirty old man or, at the least, try to compare him to Uncle Robert and some of his more famous peccadillos. 

None of that was true and none of it mattered to her.  Besides how ludicrous it would be to consider his manners dirty, calling him an old man was equally ridiculous.  She could name several society marriages where there was far more of an age difference between the husband and wife than the fifteen years between Stannis and her.  Yes, some of those marriages were opportunistic on one side or the other, although several were also seemingly borne out of affection and successful.  As far as taking advantage of her, that wasn’t true either.  With the small exception of touching her this morning, Stannis had been the very model of propriety.  The touch may have started, as he indicated, as looking at a birthmark Aunt Lysa mentioned.  His somewhat rigid propriety was one of the things she found herself being drawn to.  He wasn’t even a modest flirt or one to make suggestive remarks to gauge her reaction.  There was a time when she found flirty men amusing.  However, even before she met Harry, she had begun to find them tiresome.  Harry was not as much a flirt as he had a talent for knowing all the right things to say and do to get a woman’s attention.  Still, she should have cut him a wide berth and would have if it weren’t for Petyr’s first reaction to him.  Petyr made it known that he would see finding Harry the least bit worthwhile as a personal slight.  She allowed Harry’s attentions initially to make a point to Petyr that he could not dictate such things to her.  So much was her fault for letting it all get so out of control. 

Petyr would tell her Stannis’ action this morning was nothing more than an act of lust.  It was one of his standard speeches to present himself in a superior light.  Little did he know he never accomplished his goal.  Petyr claimed almost all men, in fact all but him, were motivated by lust and they only used the word love when it helped them get a women into bed.  Was it possible that Stannis felt lust for her when he touched her this morning?  She hoped so . . . just as she hoped it was lust and more.  The kindest thing anyone would do now if she said her instincts about people were good would be to scoff.  Her instincts had warned her Ramsay Bolton was dangerous and she had paid attention to them.  Her instincts told her Petyr had an agenda, and she ignored them.  Her instincts told her Harry would never be monogamous, but it didn’t matter because she never intended the engagement to last when she publicly accepted him.  Her instincts told her Aunt Lysa was the female version of Harry and she talked herself out of believing it.  Now, she intended to listen to her instincts, and they were telling her that Stannis Baratheon would care for her and never break her heart.  Her instincts also told her he was already fighting this attraction tooth and nail. 

 _What do I know about Stannis Baratheon, really?_   She knew he gave up the chance to run Barasteel, which by all accounts he would have been exceptional at, to be a public servant.  He believed in the rule of law and in justice, and that he had a law degree and had worked as a prosecutor before joining the police force.  Sansa remembered her father once comparing him to Robert and saying that Stannis had all the seriousness and studiousness Uncle Robert lacked.  At the time, Sansa thought it could have been a comparison between her father and Uncle Robert. 

Sansa knew from Stannis’ books that he’d actually read most of them.  His library wasn’t like many she had seen in private homes where new books lined shelves solely to look impressive and the only books with age or showing signs of use were those first editions purchased as collectables.  Histories of Westeros and the ancient world took up the largest part of his collection.  That was something they had in common – an interest in history.  There was a large selection of reference books on criminology and law with mysteries and a few popular novels rounding out the collection.  His study also contained a phonograph and a small cache of albums of classical music with a marked preference for Beethoven and the piano. 

She knew he was extremely intelligent and respected by his peers, as well as his superior.  As part of her conversations with Alysane yesterday, she discretely asked about his ability as a detective, hoping the constable thought Sansa was trying to assess his ability to apprehend Ramsay.  To be honest, that was how it started.  This time yesterday, she was interested in him, yet she would not have said she was romantically interested in him.  Alysane told her how he was, hands down, the best detective on the force and only had one unresolved case, which her father told her he still doggedly pursued.  Alysane volunteered the information that he never went to any of the police force’s social functions except when it was a benefit for a fallen officer’s family or someone injured in the line of duty, and even then he would write a check and get Seaworth to take it if he could get away with it. 

Eventually, Alysane brought up Stannis Baratheon and women.   The popular theory at the station was that he had no interest in either women or men sexually.  Various women working in one capacity or another at the station had tried to get his attention over the years and she had never heard of anyone having any success.  _How very interesting Alysane must have found what she saw this morning!_    Sansa felt his attraction just as strongly as she felt her attraction to him in that moment.  Thinking about it now, there was something in the way he looked at her from the moment they met and in the way he spoke to her. 

Stannis Baratheon may be attracted to her and he may know a great deal about her from reading her diary, yet she would not be surprised to learn he questioned her judgment and maturity.  So did she looking back on her actions of the last year and a half.  The previous morning, he got her to admit that her engagement to Harry had more to do with creating distance from Petyr.  He appeared to understand it; understanding wasn’t approving.  She had shown that she could use people . . . a trait she abhorred.  Stannis possibly questioned how she got involved with Petyr in the first place.  He would take her to cafes and restaurants and regale her with tales of growing up with her mother, how beautiful she was, how no one could eclipse her for elegance.  Sansa enjoyed every minute of it until he began to claim her father brought her mother down and took an exciting life away from her.  She should have gotten as far away from him as possible then, except that he was introducing her to people who could make her dreams come true.  Charity boards started letting her in, seeking her efforts . . . being nice to Petyr and having dinner with him once a week or accompanying him to some event or another seemed a small price to pay. 

Sansa grieved at how Jeyne must look to Stannis.  That Sansa had very little reaction to his hypothesis that Jeyne had been in bed with Harry before she answered the door must confuse everyone.  If Sansa loved Harry, then surely she would be irate.  She didn’t love him.  Jeyne knew it and so did Stannis after reading her diary and talking to her about it.  If he was confused by her lack of reaction, it was probably by her not being upset with what many would see as a betrayal by a close friend.  It seemed horrible to be upset with Jeyne over anything while she lay lifeless waiting to be laid to rest.  If Jeyne were alive and she found out about it, Sansa would have chastised her for not being more cautious of the possibility of another Ramsay in her life, but not for betraying her with her former fiancé . . . the fiancé she had admitted to Jeyne she’d never wanted.  Jeyne would have seen Harry as another hand-me-down like the dresses she used to eagerly wait for Sansa to pass her way.  What upset Sansa and brought on several crying jags since her return from the cottage was the feeling that Jeyne’s only interest in Ramsay was in seeing him as another hand-me-down.  As young girls, Sansa made a habit of giving Jeyne clothes that she really hadn’t outgrown or had yet to tire of just because Jeyne admired them so and had so little.  For her nameday, Sansa would get new perfumes and lotions; she would give half-used bottles that had just been replaced to Jeyne out of a sense of guilt at having so much and Jeyne having so little.  How Jeyne translated it to the men in her life was something Sansa couldn’t bear to think about without becoming intensely upset.  It made her feel responsible, as though giving her clothes and perfume over the years somehow set the stage for Jeyne’s fate. 

If Stannis wanted to see anger, he need only ask her about Aunt Lysa.  There was the person she felt had betrayed her, and continued to do so.  When Stannis gave his hypothesis about Harrying being at the apartment with Jeyne and then running to her aunt to have her come and clean up his mess, and her having done so, letting people who cared about her think her dead . . . she knew it was true.  Sansa once trusted that her aunt had her best interests at heart.  Nothing could have been farther from the truth.  If she wanted to continue doing the work she had been, Sansa was going to have to find a way to get along with her as their paths would continually cross.  She would have to learn to do so and still keep her at arm’s length . . . farther if possible. 

The shrill sound of the landline phone ringing broke into her thoughts.  Alysane set aside her the manuals she was reviewing and rushed to the kitchen to take the call.  “Hello? . . . Yes, I’ll get her.”

Upon hearing that it was for her, she made her way into the kitchen.  “It’s your brother,” Alysane told her, handing her the receiver.  “Remember DI Baratheon’s instructions.” 

Emotion welled up as she spoke into the phone, “Hello.” 

“I can’t believe it!” she heard him say through a bad connection on the other end.  Stannis told her he would be allowed to call, but they could not use names and they could not talk specifically of her being alive and Jeyne Bolton dead.  “I couldn’t take in what I’d been told earlier in the week only when I was told another story today, I must admit I was angry at first . . . can you imagine!  I’d been sending telegrams to our aunt and she didn’t as much as hint.”

“We can discuss it later. For now I would say she is not one for reliable information.  Will you be paying the little dancer a visit?”  Robb would know she meant Arya, who fought taking dance classes in school until she was told it would improve her fencing. 

“I’m on my way there now and will take her home. I understand what I am to do.”  Sansa assumed he was referring to paying to have Jeyne’s body shipped back to Winterfell to await the police notifying her father, who was retired and living in Braavos, and seeing to his being brought home for the funeral.   “I’m afraid for you,” he added.

“Don’t be.”  She started to tell him that she felt safe for the first time in a long while; however, he wouldn’t understand it and she couldn’t explain it.   

They attempted more conversation, yet it was too difficult given their instructions to be vague and Robb had to drive several hours to get to Arya’s school.  She was glad to hear his voice and took heart at his assertion that he was glad of the news he’d been given.  It was something else she and Stannis Baratheon had in common . . . being middle children between two siblings who were a lot closer to each other, leaving them the odd one out. 

“So,” Alysane said, looking up from some manual she was reading.  “Your brother has a nice voice.  Is he as nice looking as he sounds?” 

Sansa rolled her eyes.  Alysane was trying to occupy her before she started another crying jag.  At least she had to do less of it today than yesterday.  “There were so many girls who wanted to be my friend just to be near Robb.”

“Did he bring home his friends for you to get a look at?”

Theon Greyjoy had been his closest friend, as well as their cousin Jon Snow.  “He did, but neither . . . there were two who were at the house quite a bit and both were more like brothers than Robb was.  They teased me and pestered me.” 

It was Alysane’s turn to roll her eyes.  “Didn’t you ever learn that the boy who pulls a girl’s pigtails really likes her?”

Sansa got the distinct impression Alysane led this conversation into the territory of girls and boys liking each other in an attempt to bring up this morning.  She steeled herself for subject avoidance.  Stannis and she did not meet under the best of circumstances and this was the worst time possible to think about a relationship with each other.  Be that as it may, her instincts, which most would argue were seriously flawed of late, told her this was a man she could love until the day she died.    


	15. Chapter 15

King’s Landing, 1940  
Davos Seaworth

 

There was a message on Davos’ desk when they returned from Petyr Baelish’s penthouse from Alysane Mormont asking him to call her with an additional note that it be in private.  _That’s_ _just_ _great_!  Davos knew that simple comment meant to tell him she didn’t want Baratheon overhearing the conversation could start rumors about him having an affair with the chief’s daughter.  It didn’t take much around here.  Fortunately, the three people that mattered would brush it off as either amusing or merely untrue.  Marya would laugh and make jokes.  DCI Mormont would probably lecture his daughter on how to leave a phone message.  And DI Baratheon wouldn’t pay any attention. 

Before he called her, he needed to attend a situation report with the chief on the dismal failure the search of Baelish’s penthouse had been.  Davos couldn’t go so far as to say he was surprised by Baratheon’s lack of reaction.  What bothered him was that he seemed downright happy with the end result.  His scowl was one Davos attributed to success, not failure.  The only thing accomplished was for Baratheon to find himself clearly in Baelish’s sights as the subject of one of his character assassinations.  Not that the man had much to go on if he were to stick to the truth.  By his own admission, Baelish didn’t let facts or the truth get in the way of something he wanted to print. 

The aggravation that Baratheon lacked after the search was made up for by DCI Mormont.  Baratheon didn’t volunteer that Baelish indicated he would be the subject of his column tomorrow.  If anything, he was strangely silent, letting Mormont rant on about what a public relations disaster this was and how he should never have let it happen. 

“Did you expect to find the shotgun?” Davos asked point blank after they were back at their desks sitting across from each other. 

Meeting his eyes with his neutral scowl, Baratheon gave a small shrug, “I wish we had.”

“But you didn’t expect to,” Davos pressed.  Finding Baratheon evasive was new to him, yet he was positive that was what he was getting . . . evasion.  “You went to all that trouble to get a search warrant and alert Baelish that we’re looking at him as a suspect . . . if the shotgun or other evidence wasn’t your motive, what was?”

That Baratheon had to think about whether he wanted to give him an answer or not pissed Davos off more than a little.  It wasn’t the first time Baratheon held back on what he was thinking or what he was driving at.  Davos had no choice but to wait and see what he would decide. 

“News will break either tonight or tomorrow,” his DI started.  Davos could tell he was avoiding saying Miss Stark’s name or that the news was that she was alive.  Maybe the reason he wasn’t being forthcoming was because he couldn’t relay what he was thinking fully in the bullpen.  However, he could have told him about it in the car.  “He has a new target now.”

 _Fuck!  Did he get that right?_   If he understood him correctly, Baratheon had just informed him he was setting himself up as a target for Baelish in hopes it would divert him from Miss Stark.  If Baelish wasn’t the murderer, then Baratheon would be making a powerful enemy for no reason whatsoever.  Not that Baratheon would care.  That man didn’t give a decent damn what anyone thought of him and Baelish would find that a formidable foe.  What he didn’t know was why he thought Miss Stark was still a target if Baelish learned she planned to break off her engagement with Harrold Hardyng.   Davos didn’t understand how that didn’t bring Miss Stark right back where Baelish wanted her unless Baratheon had more information that he wasn’t privy to. 

There was nothing more he could do but ask, although he had to be circumspect in how he did it.  “If he is the shooter, isn’t the pressure off because the reason that led to the shooting no longer is a problem for him?  He hoped Baratheon understood he what he was asking. 

Those all-knowing blue eyes supported by a scowl stared back at him.  “There will be another problem eventually.”

 _Was that their concern?_   They were there to solve a murder, not prevent the possibility of one in the future.  It was possible his brother had talked him into this.  Davos could never quite figure their relationship out, not that any familial relationship was cut and dried.  “If I were doing this, you would be the first to try to stop me.”

“There are one or two instances where I wouldn’t,” Baratheon replied cryptically and then changed the subject none too subtly.  “When is Dreadfort going to execute the warrant on Bolton’s work and residence?”   

“They should be there now.  I did find out that Bolton is the owner of a shotgun; just don’t know what kind to know if the ballistics are a match.”  Shotguns didn’t have to be registered in any of the counties in Westeros. 

Baratheon’s eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips, which was a sign he was moving the players around on the board looking to see if he was missing anything.  “The only real source of information about Jeyne Bolton has been Miss Stark and your wife’s uncle.”

“I asked the sergeant I talked to at DFPD about her,” Davos asserted, realizing he was being hypersensitive at the moment as he was about to tell Baratheon he knew how to ask more questions than just those he put in his mouth.  “No trouble to the community; did not attend sept, presumably because Bolton didn’t; did not have friends, again assumed to be because of Bolton.  Was once seen with a black eye and approached by a constable and she told the type of lie women often do in those situations.  She was never hospitalized for anything that says he laid a hand on her beyond the black eye although popular opinion is that he knew how to stop just short something that required medical attention.” 

“We haven’t spoken to her father and won’t until we’re ready to notify him.  That should be first thing tomorrow as well.  He’s retired and living in Braavos, which implies that it’s possible the Boltons gave him some money to get him out of their way.  We’ll need to see if the Federals in Braavos will make the notification and possibly question him for us.  Otherwise, it has to be by phone.” 

Davos snickered at the thought of telling Mormont they needed to make an overseas call.  He was already wanting Baratheon’s head over the search warrant.   He tried to see what he could find out about Mrs. Bolton’s father and how his retirement was being funded while Baratheon was called back into Mormont’s office.  He returned about ten minutes later to inform him the call had been from Robb Stark, who had just been briefed by DI Wyman of the White Harbor PD. 

“How did he take it?” Davos questioned, knowing they would still have to talk around Miss Stark being alive. 

Baratheon picked up a notepad and began makes notes, probably of information he learned in the call.  “DI Wyman did a good job of convincing him there was a reason for the present course of action.  He is on his way to the younger sister’s school now.”

“Any timeframe on when others will be notified, like the aunt?” 

The Baratheon scowl went from neutral to predatory and Davos realized he didn’t hear the question.   Davos turned around to see the chief escorting Mrs. Arryn and Hardyng into his office.  Mrs. Arryn looked way too smug while Hardyng looked petrified.  This should help take some of the sting out of the Baelish search disaster.  In fifteen minutes, DCI Mormont was finished listening to Mrs. Arryn’s complaints at not being notified sooner and both were put into interrogation rooms.  Baratheon decided to interrogate Mrs. Arryn first and let Hardyng’s nerves build up while he waited. 

Interrogation Room one had four metal chairs and a bare table lit by an overhead ceiling lamp.  The movies loved to show the bright light being put on a suspect’s face.  Davos had never seen one used like that ever.  Baratheon and he took pads of paper with pens into the room and sat across from a seething Lysa Arryn. 

“Why am I in here like a common criminal?” she spat at them, her head reared back to ensure her nose was high in the air.  “I have been nothing but cooperative.  It was my information that alerted you to the fact that the body was not my niece’s”

Davos wanted to laugh at her leading with that, and waited while Baratheon sat ramrod straight in his chair and smirked.  “Mrs. Arryn, you have done nothing but lie to us from the very start.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” she continued to keep up the pretense.  Clearly, Lysa Arryn did not know what they had and who she was dealing with. 

For effect, Baratheon tapped his pen in a consistently rapping on the pad of paper while he stared her down.  “Let’s save some time here, shall we.  Your first mistake was not straightening up the bed, although that wasn’t your most telling . . . that would be not checking the bathroom to see that Hardyng left the toilet seat up.”

The color draining from her face was priceless.  “I don’t know what you’re implying!” she struggled inanely.  These were words used in this room so often, you wanted to have a list and just check them off. 

Mormont had pulled them aside just before they went into the interrogation room and said that her sex life outside of her relationship with Hardyng was out of bounds.  Davos noted that Baratheon neither agreed, nor disagreed.  “Mrs. Arryn, while we already know the answer to this and so does your niece, we are asking you for the record.  Are you now or have you in the last six weeks while he was engaged to Miss Stark, been in a sexual relationship with Harrold Hardyng.”

There was no blushing or look of embarrassment on Mrs. Arryn’s face.  There was only seething rage.  “How dare you ask me such a question!”  Another response that could be on a list and ticked off. 

“Just answer it so we will have either your lying to us again or telling us the truth on record and I can move on with my next question you will object to,” Baratheon countered in a voice that left no doubt of his utter contempt for her. 

Mrs Arryn still tried to backpedal.  “Why is any of this relevant?  My niece is not dead.  It is a girl I neither knew nor wished any harm.  I certainly wished my niece no harm.  What are you accusing me of that you are questioning me like this?”

Davos had to accede that it was a legitimate question, although he would be the first to be happy to see her charged with obstruction of justice.  It wouldn’t see the light of day.  She would give some excuse for her behavior to her various charities, who would call the mayor, who would call both the commissioner and the prosecutor’s offices, and it would all be a waste of effort.  It was a waste unless Baratheon’s sole purpose in this was to have it on record so that any trial for the shooter would drag her and Hardyng out as alternative suspects and cause her public humiliation.  Sometimes Davos forgot that Baratheon looked for obscure ways to see justice done when the system failed him. 

“Are you refusing to answer the question about whether you are or have been in a sexual relationship since Miss Stark’s and Mr. Hardyng’s engagement?”  Baratheon pushed, occasionally tapping the end of his pen on the notepad in an attempt to unnerve her. 

Davos didn’t think it was possible for her to get her nose any higher in the air, but he was wrong.  “I will not dignify it with an answer.” 

Baratheon cocked his head at Davos.  “Sounds like an affirmation to me.  You?”

“I’m hearing a yes,” Davos responded, making it look like he was writing that down on his notepad.   Looking up at Mrs. Arryn after he actually did note her actual words, he saw that DI Baratheon was not the only person capable of clenching a jaw so hard it looked like it could shatter. 

“Mrs. Arryn, when we questioned you on the fifteenth of this month, you stated that you came to see your niece to discuss wedding plans when Miss Stark tells us you knew she was far more likely to be calling the engagement off due to something she observed between you and Mr. Hardyng.  Would you explain why you felt compelled to tell us that lie?”

“Men like you are jealous of Harry.  You jump to conclusions where he is concerned because you can’t satisfy a woman the way he can.  I was concerned you would frame him for what happened if you knew he was there,” she spat back at him. 

Baratheon listened coolly.  “DS Seaworth, please note for the record that Mrs. Arryn looked at me when she used the phrase ‘men like you’.  Now, Mrs. Arryn, again for the record, are you implying you and I have had sexual relations in the past?”

He eyebrow shot up and she reared back to look at him incredulously.  “You know perfectly well we have not!”

Nodding with his eyes narrowed a fraction.  “DS Seaworth, please further note that Mrs. Arryn tried to justify her lie by ascribing a motive to frame Mr. Hardyng that she admits she has no basis for making.  However, she does imply having such knowledge of Mr. Hardyng.”  It took a concerted effort for Davos to keep a straight face.  He would never put an _implication_ into an official record and Baratheon knew it. 

“Yes, Sir,” Davos spoke as he wrote.  “Admits lying and . . . I’ve got it all, Sir.”  He normally did not use _Sir_ with Baratheon as other sergeants did their detective inspectors, except in situations such as these when it helped make him more intimidating.

“This is all I have for now, Mrs. Arryn.  A constable will take you for fingerprinting.”

“For what reason?” she barked, her white curvette hat moving askew on her head despite its pins. 

Baratheon’s eyes lit up as he leaned forward in his chair.  “Well, Mrs. Arryn, I’m glad you asked.  Miss Stark’s maid found dirty glasses put up in the cupboard.  Fingerprints are unique.  No two are alike.  We’ve already determined the glasses were used that night of the murder because Mrs. Bolton’s fingerprints are on both glasses.  There were two other prints found that are not hers.  One glass contains several sets of prints where the fingers are broader and look to be a man’s fingerprints.  Both glasses contain another set of prints near the rim.  This would be the person we believe put the glasses back up into the cupboard.”

Again, the color drained from her face, yet she continued to glare at him with eyes the same color as Miss Stark’s.  “This is some personal vendetta, isn’t it Stannis?  Something you have against those who enjoy their wealth?” 

Baratheon merely smirked and checked his watch.  “Interview concluded at three o’clock.  DS Seaworth, would you see that she goes with Constable Hill?” 

Just as Constable Hill led a seething Lysa Arryn away, he was told the Dreadfort PD was on the line with the results of the search warrant.  “Take the call,” Baratheon instructed as he left the interrogation room.  “I’ll start with Hardyng and you may come in if I’m not finished with him by the time you’re done.  This shouldn’t take long.”

He watched Baratheon go into the other conference room and could see Hardyng through the glass.  Davos hated he was going to miss part of the fun. 

“DS Seaworth,” he spoke into the phone.  One of his counterparts at Dreadfort PD, DS Terys, gave him the details of what was found at both the Bolton residence and construction company.  There was no shotgun; however there were several boxes of shotgun shells with one opened and four shells missing.  The Dreadfort PD sergeant listed other weapons found at the house and that it appeared that Ramsay Bolton had not been home for five days due to accumulated mail.  His father, Roose Bolton, claimed he was away on business to Lys.  _Great!  Another foreign jurisdiction to deal with!_ Davos made a call to Lys and spoke with their equivalent of a police force asking them to check with the company Roose Bolton mentioned to see if they had seen Ramsay Bolton or find out if he was in the area and when he got there. 

About to get up and go to Interrogation Room Two, Davos saw the message from Constable Mormont still on his desk, although upside down.  Looking around to see everyone else engaged in some activity or another, he picked up the phone and asked the switchboard to dial Baratheon’s home number.  The Constable answered the phone and then asked him to wait.  He heard her tell Miss Stark that this was police business and could she please talk in private for a moment.  Miss Stark obviously complied in some form Alysane Mormont found acceptable. 

“What is this about?” Davos asked, remembering not to use names.  “Is your charge wanting to leave or giving you a problem?”

“No,” came the whisper from the other end.  “I don’t want to take up much time here or for her to guess at what I’m telling you.”

“And just what are you telling me?” Davos prompted, curious but really wanting to get into Hardyng’s interrogation. 

There was a pause and for a moment, he thought the line had gone dead until she started whispering again.  “This morning, I saw _him_ caress _her_ shoulder, and if I hadn’t walked in I am sure . . . he was about to kiss her.  I am in no doubt about it.  They both looked embarrassed afterward.”

Davos busted out laughing, getting DS Yoren’s attention before he shrugged and the sergeant returned to what he was doing.  “I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t that.  You do realize who you’re talking about!”

“I know who I’m talking about!” Constable Mormont hissed back.  “I . . . I think he saw a birthmark on her shoulder.  He told me to write a report as it was mentioned by . . .  a witness.  I think he saw it and touched it.  She looked at him when he did and they both got caught up in it.   I don’t think there has been any more than that and I’m not saying there will be.  You need to watch out for . . . well, just watch out for something that could get him in trouble.” 

Davos found his stomach tightening a bit as he listened.  Things were falling into place, despite the fact that he would have said this was all utterly impossible.  Baratheon trying to deflect Baelish away from Miss Stark and on to him in a real belief Baelish tried to kill Miss Stark and might try again.  Baratheon being smitten with this girl made a lot of things make sense that weren’t adding up.  _But Baratheon smitten . . . falling in love with an intended victim?_   King’s Landing was about to crumble into Blackwater Bay or pigs would be hovering over the treetops about right now. 

“What do you want me to do?” he queried, trying to lower his voice.  “Ask him to pull himself off of the case? Ask that he be pulled off of the case?”

“No,” she replied.  “I’m telling you so you can keep him out of trouble.”

Davos assumed that meant she wasn’t telling her father and he couldn’t help himself from asking her why.  “Because it would get him taken off the case,” she responded.  “That’s not in anyone’s best interest.”  There was a pause and he was about to ring off when she added, “Besides, if he does care for her more than he should and pulled himself off the case, I’d never respect him ever again.  Just don’t let it make him do something he shouldn’t, okay?” 

When he considered the search on Petyr Baelish’s penthouse, Davos thought that ship might have sailed.  He thanked her and rang off.  It occurred to him that anyone on the switchboard may have heard that conversation, and despite the lack of names, could easily put names to it once Miss Stark being alive goes public. 

Walking into the second interrogation room, Davos couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  Hardyng was crying and talking non-stop about how he loved Sansa, yet her insistence at remaining a virgin drove him to other women, including Lysa Arryn and particularly Jeyne Bolton because she looked so much like Miss Stark and that she was so tragic.  Baratheon’s jaw was clenched as he listened and Davos viewed this irritation with new eyes after talking to Constable Mormont. 

Hardyng rambled on, pretty much corroborating Baratheon’s theory of his actions that night.  The one thing both Baratheon and he looked at each other to acknowledge special interest in was Hardyng’s statement that he waited ten minutes between the time he heard the gunshot and the time he heard the front door close, and decided it was safe to come out of the bedroom. 

“Ten minutes,” Baratheon reiterated.  “Are you sure it was that long?”

Blowing his nose into his handkerchief and folding it again, Hardyng sniffled and nodded.  “There was one of those alarm clocks with hands that glow in the dark.  I watched it the whole time.” 

Davos remembered the clock and, from the notes he took with no additional questioning, so did Baratheon. 

“Do you think Sansa will see me now?” Hardyng interjected, still sniffling. 

For a few seconds, Davos heard the infamous Baratheon teeth grinding.  Lysa Arryn wasn’t wrong about him despising this guy, and he might now know why.  “Miss Stark is being held in protective custody.  She will not see anyone at the moment.”

Hardyng’s brow furrowed.  “What if you don’t find the murderer?  You can’t keep her there forever,” he protested, actually showing a bit of spine in his ill-conceived challenge. 

“Then,” Baratheon literally sneered at him.  “It will be up to her whether she ever wants to see you again.” 

There were a few more meaningless exchanges before Davos walked him to the fingerprinting section and left him with the constable.  Baratheon was already back at his desk when he returned.  “Ten minutes!” he growled, sitting in an unusual pose of elbows bent on the desk and hand folded upward with his forefingers pointed to the ceiling.  “What was the shooter doing for ten minutes?” 

“My first thought is hiding the shotgun so he isn’t seen with it walking out.  Walking in, no one was paying attention.  However, if anyone was out in the corridor or lobby afterward, they would take more notice of him.”  Baratheon didn’t have to mention that neighbors should have been looking after the shots were fired, but King’s Landing was famous for people who preferred to hide and swear they saw nothing.  “Thing is, we turned her apartment over and there was no shotgun left there.” 

A stricken look came on Baratheon’s face.  “The housekeeper!”

“What about her?” Davos asked, confused.

“When the news breaks, it could give her a heart attack.   I need to go break it to her.”  Baratheon stood and collected his fedora and shoved papers into a briefcase that most of the force envied.  Davos had a similar one.  It had been a gift from a certain detective inspector who had a twinge of conscious about keeping him in the office late at night to write reports, but not about sending him home to do them there.

“I could send a constable who lives in that direction.  They might appreciate the excuse to leave early,” he suggested, trying to save Baratheon the trip. 

“No,” Baratheon insisted.  “It should be someone she knows.”  Had he not talked to Alysane Mormont less than an hour ago, he would be so confused now, he would have a headache.  The headache may come yet.  DI Baratheon was going to go play nice with Miss Stark’s housekeeper and then go home and report his good deed.  Sure, it wasn’t beyond his capacity to find concern for the woman.  It was a new wrinkle that he wouldn’t send someone else to take care of such a task.  “You’ve had a long day.  Go home.  If any theory comes to you about those ten minutes, call me.” 

It was five o’clock when he walked into his tiny row house outside of King’s Landing.  Marya, wearing a simple tan maternity dress with a big white collar, sat at the table peeling potatoes with a large butcher knife.  It always frightened him to watch her wield that knife so fast and think about how easily she could seriously cut herself.   She may not have Sansa Stark's beauty and elegance, but his Marya was sweet, funny, and smart.  She was a devoted wife and an even better mother, and he adored her. 

“The news broke about five minutes ago that Sansa Stark is alive,” she informed him as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” he apologized.  There were only two things he hated about his job:  the hours he missed with his family and keeping secrets from her.  Right now, he wanted to tell her so badly about the possibility that his boss was in love with Sansa Stark, he couldn’t stand it.  She would have several words of wisdom on how he should handle it.  The only thing that kept him from telling her was if Baratheon got in trouble, the internal investigations boys could go so far as to question Marya about what Davos knew.  It was paranoia . . . prudent paranoia. 

With the little bit of daylight left, he kicked a ball around the backyard with his boys and then washed for dinner.  After the boys were in bed, they listened to her favorite radio programs before he took his wife to their bed.  Pregnancy always made his wife a little more aggressive and he loved it. 

Hours later, spooned against Marya while she slept, Davos considered the position Baratheon was in.  If there was someone out there that was a threat to Marya or his boys, and putting a target on his back was the best way to protect them . . . no one could stop him.  And if someone tried to get him off of a case where their safety was involved . . . yeah, that wasn’t happening either.  The best he could do for Baratheon was to support him and back his play, even if he wasn’t sure what that really was. 

It was a little after four o’clock when he gave up trying to get any more sleep.  Davos got up, dressed, and made coffee.  He was on his second cup when he heard what he had been waiting for, the thump of the King’s Landing Herald hitting the stoop.  With both anticipation and dread, he retrieved the paper and immediately saw the headline:  _Sansa Stark ALIVE --- Socialite Back from the Dead_.  The front page was rife with articles about her background, the death of her parents, her charity work, and an article saying DCI Mormont of the KLPD identified Mrs. Jeyne Bolton, wife of Ramsay Bolton of Bolton Construction in Dreadfort as the victim.  If Mormont verified her identity, it meant he managed to notify Mr. Poole in Braavos.  Moving from the front page, Davos went in search of what he was really looking for.  On the top left corner of the second page.  There was the familiar, smarmy, black and white photo of Petyr Baelish.  And underneath, the title of his latest column:  _The Haunting of Stannis Baratheon_. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks for Tommyginger for her assistance in writing the Baelish column!!!

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

 

Mrs. Marsh’s tears of joy were disconcerting as he wasn’t equipped to handle such emotions well, yet it was undoubtedly easier to deal with an overjoyed Nan Marsh than a silent and sulking Sansa Stark after he arrived at his townhouse and informed her that she needed to pack and move in with Robert.   Last night, after his brother agreed to try to talk Judge Selmy into issuing a search warrant, Stannis formed the plan to antagonize Baelish to make himself the target instead of Sansa.  One thing he hadn’t fully thought through until he was driving in this morning was the likelihood that Baelish would, in his attempt to rake him over the coals, make an issue of Sansa staying in his townhouse.  There was a possibility a reporter other than Baelish would discover Sansa's current whereabouts first, yet Stannis doubted it.  If it was Baelish, he wouldn’t tell anyone else until he scooped it in tomorrow’s column and then the reporters would be all over the location Baelish cited.  It was fine for them to be at his door if she wasn't there.  However, Robert had a security detail he could get to take care of reporters lurking at his brownstone. 

Stannis tried to explain this to her, but she either wasn't listening or didn't understand.  He was not the least bit prepared for her to show any reluctance to leaving. 

Like the past two dinners since Sansa and Constable Mormont were in his house, dinner was waiting for him when he arrived and he made the mistake of spoiling it by talking about the need for her to move beforehand. This evening, dinner was pork tenderloin roasted with apples, red potatoes with rosemary, asparagus, and a pork-based gravy.  It was an excellent meal that was eaten in complete silence.   Like all Sansa’s meals, there was a dessert that no one would be able to eat for another hour or two.  When he suggested she take the lemon chiffon pie to Robert’s, Sansa made no comment or gesture of agreement or disagreement. 

If he were in any doubt about how angry she was, all doubt dissipated when he said that he would do the dishes when he got back because there was no time to do otherwise.  Stannis expected a protest; a protest he wouldn’t agree to, but he expected one all the same.  He did not get one.  Instead, she said the words, “Excuse me,” and got up from the table to go upstairs. 

“Is it that you don’t want to go to Robert’s?” he tried asking, standing in the hallway outside the guest room Sansa occupied while she packed her suitcases.  “Myrcella is still there and we can work on other arrangements from there.”  So far, Sansa had made no mention of wanting to go back to her apartment and he suspected it would be on the market fairly soon.  Despite not having seen Jeyne’s body in her drawing room, she would always think of her friend lying there were she to stay. 

Sansa tugged at her lip and didn’t look at him when she spoke.  “I will work it out.”

Rubbing the back of his neck in frustration, he felt his jaw start to clench and made a concerted effort not to aggravate the situation by showing his exasperation and confusion.  Not knowing what to do, he moved down the hall to the second guest room where Constable Mormont was also closing her suitcase.  She, too, appeared to be put out by the change in plans.  Stannis didn’t want to walk into the room, yet talking to her from the hallway would be overheard.  He motioned for her to follow him and, put out or not, she obeyed, taking her suitcase with her. 

Stannis led the constable downstairs and into the kitchen.  “Did anything happen today that I should know about?”

He wasn’t prepared for her to laugh.  “You’re the best detective in King’s Landing and you can’t figure this one out?”

In no mood to play games, he glared at her to let her know he wanted answers.  “She feels like you’re kicking her out for having done something wrong.”

“That’s ludicrous!” he growled under his breath so as not to be heard upstairs.  “Why would she think that?”

Constable Mormont rolled her eyes.  “Oh I don’t know, Sir . . . perhaps because the last thing that happened this morning before you appear here tonight telling her she has to leave is that you almost kissed her.”

While not expecting such candor, he deserved it for pressing her and hated that he was probably beet red if the heat he felt in his face was any indication.  In fact, he was sure when he calmed down, he would admire her for being so blunt.  Stannis wasn’t going to try to pretend the constable saw anything other than what she saw.  The only problem was whether she would tell her father about it.  If she already had, Stannis would have already been called into his office, or to his home if it had been after hours, to get thrown off of the case. 

“That alone is a good enough reason for the change, but that isn’t why this is necessary,” Stannis stated.  “You’ve seen how the press can assault a major story.”

The constable at least looked somewhat sympathetic.  “Look, detective . . . it’s none of my business.  Well, that’s not true.  I’m not going to report it, although I should.  You’ve got even more incentive to see to her safety and to find the perpetrator, and I’m okay with that.  Not even you can almost kiss a girl and then tell her to leave without her getting a bit upset, unless she’s relieved you didn’t kiss her.”

Stannis sincerely wished Constable Mormont would stop reminding him of this morning, although a part of his brain filed away that last bit of information.  The idea that Sansa would have allowed it astounded him.  He considered asking her what he should tell Sansa and thought better of it.  Sansa would get over whatever it was that she was feeling long before he did.  “Call a cab,” he told her instead.  “I’ll pay for your ride home.” 

With that, he returned upstairs to find Sansa had closed one suitcase, as well as her overnight case, and was putting the last of what was folded on the bed into her second suitcase.  “I’ll take those,” he offered, stepping into the room to get the two suitcases.  Sansa walked out of the room in front of him, still avoiding eye-contact as much as possible. 

Downstairs, Sansa put her case down and held out both hands to Constable Mormont, who took them in her own.  It was an interesting sight.  Both women were as tall or taller than most men, while one was still tiny despite her height and the other, while not overweight, would never hear an adjective such as tiny used to describe her.  “Thank you, Alysane.  I hope I haven’t been too much trouble.”

“Are you kidding?  This wasn’t work . . . it was a vacation with really great company and food.”  The two woman hugged each other. 

“Would you like to take some pie with you?” Sansa asked.  “I’m sure Detective Baratheon does not mind if you take one of his plates since you can return it to him at the station.”  She didn’t bother to ask or turn to him for assurance.

Constable Mormont did suffer him a glance and he tried not to show any preference one way or the other.  “I’d love a slice to take with me!  Mom is a great cook, but her pies aren’t nearly as good as yours.” 

Sansa took the pie out of the icebox and cut it in half, and then cut three slices from that half and arranged them on a plate she took from the cupboard.  It was evident she knew her way around his kitchen as she went straight to the drawer where a roll of tin foil was kept, using it to cover the plate before retuning with it and handing it to the constable.  This effort gave just enough time for the cab to arrive.  The two women hugged once more with promises to arrange to meet to go shopping some evening.  Stannis wondered if it really would happen. 

He took Constable Mormont’s suitcase and followed her out to the car.  “I appreciate all you’ve done and . . . I appreciate your . . . discretion,” he managed without too much embarrassment as she got into the cab and he put her suitcase in next to her.”

She looked up at him with her eyes slightly squinted.  “Detective Inspector or not, future Detective Chief Inspector or not . . . you hurt her needlessly and I will show you what a policewoman can do with a billy-club.”  With no answer for that, he closed the door and paid the driver. 

Back inside, Sansa continued her efforts to avoid eye contact, telling him she was ready while picking up her overnight case.   Stannis was about to ask her if she wanted to wrap the rest of the pie and take it to Robert and Myrcella, and thought better of it.  It might make her add being ungrateful for her efforts at cooking for them to his current list of sins.  He thought perhaps thanking her, which he needed to do anyway, would help.  “You did not need to do the cooking that you have, and I can tell you vacuumed and dusted as well.  Thank you.” 

She murmured a politely spoken, although not entirely genuine.  “You’re welcome.” 

There was nothing else to do, so he picked up her suitcases and led them outside to his Buick.  Once he loaded her cases and opened the door for her, he returned to the stoop briefly to lock the door and then got into the driver’s seat.  It was night; however, he could still see her face with the street lights.  If it were just anger etched there, he wouldn’t feel it necessary to explain.  What he saw was disappointment and he knew all too well what that was like.  He didn’t want her as jaded as he was and expecting others to eventually let you down.  Stannis didn’t want to be the one to let her down.  “Sansa, I’m not . . . “ he wasn’t sure how to explain it, “This isn’t happening for any other reason than to protect you the best way I know how short of sending you away from King’s Landing with armed guards, which I would gladly see to if you’d let me.” 

Sansa made no answer and Stannis meant to give up and start the car only he heard the constable’s voice in his head . . . _Not even you can almost kiss a girl and then tell her to leave without her getting a bit upset._  Stannis turned back to her, moving slightly on the bench seat so he could see her better as she stared down at her hands folded on her lap.  He started to try again, but he was tired of her not facing him.  Taking his hand, he put it on her cheek and gently tried to encourage her to face him.  It worked and when he saw tears in those light blue eyes reflecting the streetlights, Stannis was undone.  Whatever romantic notions she had about him, and he had to assume the constable knew what she was talking about, he could only prove to her that he was not the sort of man any woman thought of as a romantic figure, at least not for long and not one with as much as she had to offer.  One kiss would tell her that . . . one kiss would make her glad she was going elsewhere. 

Stannis thought only to touch her lips lightly in a brief kiss that would show how truly inept he was.  Of course he’d kissed women, and despite snide whispers to the contrary, he had been with a few.  Sure, he didn’t have a steady diet of female company.  It had been the odd one-off brief trysts that he knew would never last.  Melisandre was the longest at two months, and the last month was the longest month of his life. 

Once he leaned towards her and actually felt her soft lips underneath his and took in her light flowery scent with a touch of apple from dinner, the thought of quickly pulling back was gone.  The hand on her cheek moved around to the back of her neck, his fingers splaying in her hair.  In the faint light, he had touched her top lip first and then moved to take in her lower lip.  Sansa leaned into him and slightly parted her lips, inviting access.  It was an invitation he took, deepening the kiss and wanting desperately to pull her closer in the confined quarters as he tasted the sweetness of that beautiful mouth.  It was when he felt the pressure in his trousers that he reluctantly slowed down and moved away. 

Both were breathing heavily and he was wished he knew what she was thinking.  “Gods, Sansa!  I am too old for you and this is the . . . it’s not a good time . . . “  Stannis couldn’t bring himself to finish, straightening his slipping fedora instead. 

“You’re not too old,” she asserted, taking in a deep breath.  “And I know it isn’t a good time.”  They were both quiet for a second.  “At some point, this will be over and I won’t be this person you have to protect and you won’t be the detective on a case I’m part of.  Then . . . “ Sansa made up for all the avoiding him of the past hour or so by smiling at him.  “Then, we figure out what is going on between us.  Agreed?”

Stannis nodded, thinking sadly that one day she would figure out he was a boring older man who caught bad guys and was totally out of place in the glamorous lifestyle she was used to. 

Her smile changed to a sheepish grin.  “You probably should hand me your handkerchief . . . you have a bit of lipstick that Robert and Myrcella would never let you hear the end of if they see it.” 

“You aren’t without a smudge or two yourself,” he returned, wishing there was more light as he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief.  Her face smudged with lipstick after he’d kissed her was a sight he wanted to get a good picture of to remember for the rest of his life. 

Sansa took the handkerchief from him and scooted over closer to him in the seat, sitting sideways to view him as best she could while wiping his mouth with the linen cloth.  She then moved back and flipped down the visor on the passenger side and tried to view herself in the mirror and wipe the smudges from her face.  Turning to him, she asked if it looked like she got it all.  His nod satisfied her and she flipped the visor back up.  “We could go back inside and do this properly, and I could put more lipstick on.”

It hadn’t occurred to him that kissing her in his car on the street in front of his townhouse could have been viewed by a lurking reporter.  Fortunately, they wouldn’t get a good picture from any distance.  “We need to go, Sansa.  Myrcella might notice your lipstick isn’t perfectly applied.  Robert won’t.”

The only reason for driving to Robert’s rather than walking was to avoid having her walk the distance in heels and the three cases they were bringing with them.  In only a few minutes, he was letting her off in front of his brother’s brownstone.  “I’ll find parking and be in shortly.”  This time of the evening when most people were home from work, it was difficult to find parking nearby.  He managed to find a space only seven houses down. 

Robert was waiting for him at the door, opening it as he walked in with Sansa’s two suitcases.  “Myrcella has already got Sansa upstairs.”  Nodding toward the foot of the stairs, Robert continued, “Set her suitcases there and we’ll get them upstairs later.  Come out back; Mrs. Caswell will bring you a lemon water.”

They sat in the semi-darkness on Robert's patio.  “Thank you for the last minute change of plans,” Stannis remarked.  “Baelish has too many spies for me not to think he’ll have a source for where she is despite how careful we’ve tried to be.” 

Mrs. Caswell appeared with a tall crystal highball with water and lemon for him and what he hoped was iced tea for Robert.  Stannis thanked her while Robert nodded to her. 

Robert took a gulp of his drink, burping after drinking it too fast.  “They’ll be here in a day or two.  I don’t mind and my security detail can handle them.  Still, my cottage on the north side of the bay, High Cliff, might be a good place for her to be.  I had it rented, but it’s been empty for a few months now.  Everything is in working order and I had it cleaned thoroughly just a few weeks ago.  Myrcella doesn’t know that I know she uses it for the odd party now and again.  I’ve been thinking about putting it on the market since I haven’t had any luck getting another tenant.  Plus, I can pay Sansa to decorate.  She’s good at that sort of thing and it would keep her occupied.”

Stannis thought he had sold High Cliff long ago.   He remembered Renly telling him about the row when Robert bought the house and how Cersei thought it too small and secluded.  The cottages on the north shore were about three to five times what Sansa's cottage would be on the southern end of Blackwater Bay. Cersei's idea of small was suspect. He liked the secluded part; however, too secluded could mean it wouldn’t be easy to see someone intruding.  “Visibility?” he asked first. 

“Secluded by a lot of trees in the front.  Back far enough from the edge of the cliff so that you can’t look into it.”

It was a good idea with one exception.  “High Cliff is out of our jurisdiction.  I can’t send Constable Mormont back there to stay with her and . . . “ he started to say he could go there in the evenings, which would still leave her unprotected during the day.  However, he couldn’t go there in the evenings, as much as he would want to, at least not and stay overnight.  “I doubt she would want to stay there by herself even if security wasn’t a problem.”  Stannis wasn’t sure that last part was true; nonetheless, he needed to finish with something. 

Robert’s ruddy face broke out into a self-satisfied smile.  “I’ve got that figured out.  I’m officially going back to work, now that I’m out of mourning for my god-daughter.  Myrcella was only taking two classes this semester and she was so upset when she thought Sansa was dead, she dropped them . . . she was within the timeframe for doing so without it affecting her grade point average.”  Stannis knew part of her reason for doing that was to babysit her father to try to keep him from taking that first drink.  “Both she and Myrcella can go there and I’ll join them in the evenings.  I can hire Sandor Clegane to provide security.”

Stannis wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Sandor Clegane, except he had to admit that his reputation for providing security for wealthy clients was good.  He had once been a vice cop and had been severely burned in a fire, being too long off the force while he healed.   As best Stannis remembered, Clegane's record was good; however, his manners left something to be desired.  Most of his clients put up with him, but Stannis wasn’t sure what Sansa would make of him. 

“Plus, if Myrcella’s there, Trystane Martell will probably be around as well,” Robert added, taking another drink.  Stannis could hear rather than see the frown on his face.  “That’s another thing Myrcella doesn’t know I know about.” 

“What’s to know?  Is he a casual boyfriend?  Surely you aren’t trying to stop her from dating.”  Stannis could understand the concern if she were dating the son of one of Robert’s political rivals, such as one of the sons of Mace Tyrell.  As far as he knew, Robert had no issues with Doran Martell. 

“It’s no longer casual,” was the only explanation he got.  There were a few assumptions that could be made from that.  Now was not the time.    

They finished their drinks, talking over the various logistics of the possibility of Sansa and Myrcella moving temporarily to High Cliff.  “If she’s not for it,” Robert concluded.  “I won’t push it.” 

In all likelihood, if Robert presented her with a project such as decorating the house for a buyer, she’d take the offer just to be busy.  It wasn’t a good time for her to be returning to her charity work.  The wealthy would come to any of her functions just to see her and the questions they would ask and the comments they would make would be excruciating for her.  He would do his best to encourage her to wait until she and the case were no longer front page news. 

As Robert walked him back into the brownstone and to the foyer, Stannis wanted to say good-bye to her without calling attention to the fact.  He was pleased to see her and Myrcella sitting on the stairs; it looked as though they were waiting for him to leave.  Sansa walked toward him and extended her hand, a slight gleam in her eyes.  “Thank you for everything, Detective.” 

As he took her hand, he felt a rush at just touching her.  _Stop acting like a pubescent schoolboy!_   Over Sansa’s shoulder, he saw Myrcella smirking at him as he shook Sansa’s hand.  _Had Sansa told her something?_   “Good evening, Miss Stark.” 

Robert walked him out onto the stoop of the brownstone and clapped him on the back.  “I owe you, Stannis.” 

“No,” Stannis assured him, realizing he might have protested a bit too vehemently when he heard the one word come out of his mouth. “I’m doing my job.” 

Robert clapped him once more on the back and Stannis made his way to his Buick, noting that Robert didn’t go back inside until he had pulled away from the curb. 

The townhouse was miserably quiet when Stannis returned.  A sense of unease came over him as he realized he was going back to warmed-over dinners that, although he appreciated Mrs. Cressen’s efforts, often tasted more like he imagined cardboard would taste.  He hadn’t realized how lonely his house was until he experienced it with Sansa in it. 

Opening his briefcase, Stannis wrote out reports on his notes from the day’s interrogations.  The process took him a little over two hours, checking and rewriting to add elements he missed in a first draft.  It was eleven o’clock when he went to bed.  While tomorrow promised to be a trying day, it wasn’t Baelish’s impending article or the swarm of reporters that was going to make it difficult for him to go to sleep.  It was a kiss in a car.

The next morning, he followed his usual routine, noting how it too suffered in comparison to the past few days of having a full breakfast served by a stunningly beautiful woman.  He could already hear the commotion of reporters in front of his house as he prepared his oatmeal, boiled egg, and the swill otherwise known as coffee.  He sat everything on the kitchenette table and braced himself to face them for the first of many times this morning as he opened his door to retrieve the paper.  One reporter, a man in a gray flannel suit handed him the paper shouting, “Where is Miss Stark?  Is she in there with you, Detective?” 

Grabbing the paper from his hand, Stannis closed the door and locked it from the inside.  The front page was filled with various articles about her with the barest mention of the actual victim.  He skimmed them before opening to the second page, the title of Baelish’s column catching his eye first:  _The Haunting of Stannis Baratheon_.  How droll.  There was nothing left to do but read it. 

 

> Dear Readers:
> 
> I present for you today a ghost story.  Not the kind with rattling chains and bumps in the night, but the ghost of a beautiful young girl.  And instead of haunting some dreary, old house, she's haunting a dreary, cold man.
> 
> By now I trust all of you have heard the shocking, but welcome, news that the beautiful socialite, Sansa Stark, is alive and well.  All of us who know and love her, and I count myself as first in that circle, have been devastated by thoughts of her grizzly murder.   There is one, though, who did not know her before the night a body was found in Miss Stark’s apartment and yet, his curious devastation is at the heart of my column today.  This pitiful man is none other than the detective inspector assigned to the case. 
> 
> Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon has a reputation as the best King’s Landing police has to offer.  Just what that says about our police department, I will leave to each of you to decide.  Until now, Baratheon has carried himself as a paragon of duty and virtue . . . doggedly pursuing his idea of justice instead of enjoying his large family fortune. 
> 
> But notice I said, “Until now.”  Because yes, dear readers, something has brought about a change in this detective.  Perhaps it was something lying dormant inside him all along, finding its way to the surface.   From the moment Stannis Baratheon learned of Sansa Stark's death, he has been acting as a man possessed.  And not in the way a detective who is determined to avenge the death of an innocent might act.  No readers, he is acting in the way of a man in love. 
> 
> Now, before you scoff at the idea of a man like Stannis Baratheon in love with a dead girl, I must tell you that I have witnessed his obsession with Miss Stark firsthand.   In the days and NIGHTS following her murder, DI Baratheon spent long hours shut up inside her apartment well after all the evidence was collected, pictures taken, and reports were completed of the scene.  He went there alone, without his sergeant.  What does this prove? 
> 
> Most of you read the news of the state of the body found in Miss Stark’s apartment.  DI Baratheon certainly did not find himself haunted by the body of a poor woman with no face.  What I personally witnessed him staring at was the portrait of Miss Stark that hangs over her fireplace mantle.  I personally helped her select the portrait painter and suggested the pose.  The portrait shows her stunning beauty and I can’t fault the detective for being drawn to it.  But falling in love with it? 
> 
> No doubt he sat in her quaint, but elegant apartment convinced he was there to catch a killer.  But I ask you, dear readers, why would a cold, passionless man suddenly spend nights staring with longing at the portrait of a beautiful dead girl?  I have it on good authority that he rifled through her most personal and intimate possessions.  He might try and call this police work, but I think we can all see it for what it really is.  It is OBSESSION, dear readers.  DI Baratheon has a dark, twisted obsession with a girl he could never have had when she was alive.
> 
> Ah!  There is the twist to our little ghost story!  It just so happens that this isn’t a ghost story after all.  Miss Stark is no “ghost” but is very much alive.  Our haunted detective has known this longer than any of us.  That's right!  DI Baratheon was the first person to discover Miss Stark was actually alive.  Did he rush to inform his superiors and colleagues at the police department?  Miss Stark's own family?  No, he did not!  Instead, he preyed on the vulnerability of a girl in shock and secreted her away to his OWN home where they spent at least one night completely alone.   I know for a fact Miss Stark is a virtuous and honorable young lady in every sense of the word.  DI Baratheon had to realize he was jeopardizing her honor, but he obviously didn’t care.  He let the people who love her, including his brother, MP Robert Baratheon, who is Miss Stark’s god-father, continue to believe her dead just so he could have her all to himself.
> 
> I've already mentioned how most who know him think DI Baratheon cold.  He is also something else.  He is arrogant!  Let’s look at that arrogance for a moment, shall we?  Stannis Baratheon was born into wealth and privilege.  He had the finest education our great country had to offer.  He could have joined his family’s business and put his considerable education to work in creating more jobs and increasing our gross national product.  But alas, in his arrogance, he has to take away a job from some deserving soul, someone who needed that job on the police force to feed a family, because he has set himself up as the paragon of justice.  By taking a job he does not need, he is telling us only he can do such a job properly. 
> 
> This arrogance also lets our wealthy detective believe he can get away with anything simply because of his badge and family name.  Well, that badge and family name can't protect him from the truth.  And the truth is he's used his position in this case to feed his obsession with Sansa Stark.  He's lied to her family, misled his superiors, and harassed the people in her life.  All because he thinks it's his right to do so. 
> 
> Perhaps I am too harsh on the detective.  Perhaps there is more to all this than simple lust and arrogance.  Perhaps, dear readers, there is a bit of madness, as well.  At nearly forty years of age, he has never been married and never seriously been linked with anyone romantically.  He has lived a life of solitude with only his job as his main source of interest until he saw a certain portrait.  He has a reputation for not enjoying the perks of his wealth and status.  Is it any wonder that, when met with a beautiful face that he would never have to fear rejecting him, he fell and fell hard?
> 
> This kind of thing is not really unheard of in the Baratheon family tree.  Though a very old and very wealthy tree, it has more than its share of "bad apples".    I'm sure you all recall the various exploits and drunken scandals surrounding the aforementioned brother, our MP, Robert Baratheon.  His younger brother, Renly, is also said to enjoy very close friendships with those of the same sex.  I leave you, dear readers, to make of that what you will.
> 
> Right now there is a man hiding his lust and obsession behind a badge, and hiding an innocent, frightened young girl from her friends and family along with it.  He plans to crush anyone who tries to come between them.  Is this what your tax dollars should pay for?    I think not.  And neither should you.


	17. Chapter 17

King’s Landing, 1940

Alysane Mormont

 

Alysane heard the phone ring and looked at her alarm clock to see that it was just a few minutes before five o’clock.  That couldn’t be good.  Hearing her father yell out “Fuck!” a few minutes later let her know it had been a good assessment. 

She met her father at the kitchen table in her nightgown and robe; something she seldom did.  He, too, hadn’t fully dressed, although he’d put on a pair of trousers and slipped the shirt he’d worn the day before on unbuttoned over his undershirt.  “There are four fuckin’ reporters out there . . . four of them!”

“What were they asking?”

“They were telling me to read the Petyr Baelish column and come out to talk to them,” he grunted. 

Alysane could see the first page of the paper was filled with articles about Sansa being alive as Pop held the paper up and went straight to where Baelish’s column usually resided on the second page.  Reading just the headline, Pop let out a roaring, “Fuck!” and received a glare from her mother, who had just come downstairs having taken the curlers out of her hair but not brushed it out yet.  After thirty years of marriage, you would think she would have given up on trying to cure him of cursing. 

As Pop read the paper, his went from white to every color of the rainbow.  Alysane grew concerned, as did her mother when his breathing seemed to become labored.  “Jeor?” Mom sat down at the round table on the other side of him.  “Whatever it is, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking.”

“It’s a bloody fucking nightmare is what it is!” Pop boomed.  “I told Baratheon not to do that search!  I told him!”  Then he focused on her.  “When I was there the first day, they seemed to be  . . . I don’t know . . . close.  It made no sense . . . they’d just met the night before.  Was he all moony-eyed over her like this implies?”

Alysane was thankful for the way he phrased the question.  As phrased, she could answer it without worry of parting with information she didn’t want to part with.  “No Sir, he wasn’t.  He treated her with respect and they were seldom, if ever, alone.  The first night I was there, he brought his brother and niece in to visit so he could tell them she was alive.  Yesterday, he came straight in and told her she had to go to the MP’s house because the news was being released that she was alive.  She had fixed dinner, so we ate first.  As I left, she was packed and they were planning to leave right behind me.” 

“What about her?” Pop demanded next.  “You know how women can get over a man they look at as their hero.” 

Choosing her words carefully, Alysane shrugged.  “I would say she made an effort to get along with him  . . more effort than most young ladies would considering his blunt manner.” 

Alysane picked up the paper and read the column for herself.  She had to hand it to Petyr Baelish.  Even those who knew DI Baratheon could find little to argue with.  He could be obsessive and she thought arrogant was an accurate description as well.  Mad was the only stretch of the imagination.  However, right now Alysane would say that, despite the personal feelings for Sansa Stark that she was certain he had, his obsession was with keeping her safe.  His arrogance was backed up by an impressive record that no one else on the KLPD could boast. 

As for madness, hearing from Pop last night about his execution of a search warrant with so little to go on might qualify.  It certainly was the catalyst for this volley from Baelish.  At the moment, the person who was acting like a mad person was her.  It was madness not to tell Pop about the almost kiss, and yet, she didn’t want to do it.  They were an odd pair, but the way they looked at each other was more romantic than any movie she’d ever seen.  Somehow, Stannis Baratheon being a part of anything that brought about the word romantic . . . well, she just wanted to see how it played out and didn’t want to be the character in the story that made their romance impossible.   If she believed for one second that their feelings for each other, which she knew for a fact that Baratheon was trying to hold in check and not let get in the way of the case, were a danger to Sansa Stark, she’d say something.  It hadn’t occurred to her that it was possible the danger was to DI Baratheon.  

* * *

Renly Baratheon

 

Reading Baelish’s column for the fourth time and having stopped answering the phone after hanging up on the second reporter with a “no comment", Renly picked up the kitchen telephone and started to ask the operator to ring Stannis’ number.  At the last second, it was Robert’s house phone that he asked for.  Usually Myrcella answered if she was there, and he knew she was staying with Robert at the moment.  The phone was answered by the housekeeper, Mrs. Caswell.  “This is Renly, Mrs. C.  Would you get Mr. Robert for me please?”

“I take it you’ve seen the paper?” came Robert’s bellowing response into the phone.  “We can’t talk on the phone.  I was planning to come to your office this morning.  When will you be there?”

Renly stared out into space.  _Robert was coming into Barasteel’s executive building?_   “I can be there in forty minutes.” 

They were seated at his office conference table in a little less than an hour.  Robert whispered as much as he was capable.  “I’m sorry Baelish threw you in on this.”

Renly wasn’t happy about it, but he’d been expecting something like this, and from Baelish, for years now.  If you could find one person in Westeros that hadn’t heard the rumors already or one of his business partners that would be learning something new, he would be amazed.  Mostly due to consistently good advice from Stannis, Barasteel was in a good position and if there were some Westerosi business backlash, it wouldn’t affect their foreign interests and that would make riding out any storm this caused fairly comfortable.  There also wasn’t anything in what Baelish wrote about Robert that wasn’t public knowledge. 

“That’s not why I called you.”  He paused because he wasn’t sure how to articulate what he wanted to say next.  “He’s . . . Stannis is . . . well, he’s a pain in the ass, but he’s our pain in the ass.  We can talk about him all we want . . . but Petyr Baelish?  No!  I’m not having it.  I know I owe Stannis . . . we both do every time we get our profit shares.  I just don’t know what to do to . . . what do we do, Robert?”

Robert eyes showed steel Renly hadn’t seen in years.  “Glad to hear you say that because I want to bring out the war hammer and pound that sonofawhore Baelish into next year!”

“How?”

“I’m doing a radio interview this afternoon with Jon Varys.  Varys owes me and he hates Baelish,” Robert sat back in his chair.  Renly hadn’t seen him this focused and determined in, well, longer than he could remember. His campaigns for Parliament didn’t get this much of Robert’s attention.  “I want you to get the Barasteel press machine ready to field anything.  You need to make a public statement that you view this as nothing more than Petyr Baelish whining over a decorated, dedicated detective doing his job to protect a citizen from harm while finding a murderer who is still on the loose.  Try to leave it at that, although you may have to field questions about your private life and I have to leave how you do that up to you.  I will be visiting the mayor after I leave here to remind him just how much Baratheons have contributed to his campaign fund and that he is expected to support his police officers.”  

Renly noticed there was no tremor in Robert’s hands and, again, how clear his eyes were.  He started to offer him a drink because, by now, Robert would usually have insisted he take out the bottle in his desk drawer that was there only for those rare occasions when Robert did happen into Barasteel.  He decided Robert was doing just fine without one. 

“What about Sansa?  If she went on Varys’ radio program, wouldn’t that be better for Stannis?”

“I thought about that.  Reporters would be at the radio station in minutes and try to follow her.  We’d never be able to keep her safe and hidden until Stannis catches whoever tried to kill her.  If they were trying to kill her and not her friend.  Besides, Stannis would have my ass if I exposed her like that right now, not that I would anyway.” 

That led into the question Renly really wanted answered.  “When Baelish goes on one of these rants, there is just enough truth in there to keep him from being sued.  Stannis . . . what is the truth here?”

Robert rubbed his forehead as was a trademark of his being worried or frustrated.  “The night Stannis called Myrcella and me to his townhouse to show us Sansa was alive . . . and staying there with a female constable to protect her . . . he said that if Baelish wasn’t guilty of this murder, it was only a matter of time before he made an attempt on Sansa.”

Not fully understanding what Robert was implying, Renly pressed him to explain.  “So is this some police tactic of Stannis’ to get Baelish to make a mistake of some sort that will show him up as the killer?  If it is, I don’t get how it works.” 

Robert met his eyes and Renly saw genuine fear there along with the steel.  “What our brother is trying to do is get Baelish to point the gun at him instead of Sansa.”

“Did he tell you that?” Renly asked, incredulous.  “You didn’t try to stop him?”

“I didn’t realize at the time that he was telling me he planned to be the one to do it.  He was telling me, and it was ringing true, that Baelish thought of Sansa as his creation after taking her under his wing once they met, and that he’d not easily stand by and let another man take his creation away from him.  I said I didn’t know anyone strong enough to take on Baelish . . . if I remember right, our brother said it would only take one man.  He’s purposely antagonized Baelish and the one way to do that is to make him think he’s the next rival for Sansa’s affection.”

Renly digested that and found it had a serious flaw.  “But Robert, who would seriously consider Stannis a rival for . . . well, seriously . . . Sansa Stark?”

“That’s just it,” Robert said, returning his incredulous look.  “According to Myrcella, and she and Sansa are close, Stannis is exactly that.” 

“Fuck!” Renly heard himself let loose. 

“Exactly!”

* * *

Jeor Mormont

 

“SEAWORTH!  GET IN HERE NOW!” Mormont yelled as he walked into his office and flipped on the flickering overhead light.  The Police Commissioner was the first to wake him up and there were four reporters at his door before the sun came up. 

“Where the fuck is he?” Mormont barked as DS Seaworth, looking like he’d been rode hard and put away wet, entered his office. 

Seaworth took a deep breath.  “I had a call from him this morning saying he wanted me to check in with you first and then meet him at his townhouse.  He didn’t say anything more than that.  Since I suspect Baelish has operators listening to his calls now, I assume he suspects it too by how little he had to say other than that.” 

“And this godsdamn case . . . is there any break in it?” Mormont roared, not caring at the moment that it was at Seaworth when he really wanted to have Baratheon in front of him answering for that damned article.  His head hurt and breakfast was now a sour mess gurgling in his stomach. 

For all his current aches, Jeor had to say Seaworth looked worse.  “We have an APB out on Ramsay Bolton, sent throughout Westeros.  Now that the news is out about Miss Stark, I will be giving the papers the picture of Bolton I received from the Dreadfort PD to print.  All the free cities have been sent requests to be on the lookout for him, having been given full descriptions.”  Seaworth added, “Of course, all this was as instructed by DI Baratheon.” 

His loyalty was commendable and there was no doubt Seaworth would make detective inspector as soon as Baratheon was promoted, if he hadn’t already fucked that up.  “Evidently Baratheon’s brother is meeting with the mayor this morning and then the mayor will meet with the Commissioner.  You can bet the Commissioner will be here after that meeting so get Baratheon here before the Commissioner gets here.”

He expected Seaworth to understand that last as a dismissal, but evidently he didn’t.  “You got more to add?”

“Sir . . . I’m not saying DI Baratheon would defy you without cause, but . . . if he thinks it’s in Miss Stark’s best interests that he stay where he’s at and make the reporters think she’s in there, he won’t . . . Sir, Baelish was right about one thing . . . Baratheon doesn’t need this job to put food on the table.  Miss Stark is his primary concern and you know how he is, well, when he thinks politics and publicity are getting in the way of doing what he thinks is right.  He won’t budge.” 

It was only three months to his retirement and Mormont had been dreading it.  Now, it was looking better and better.  “Tell him I want him here,” he insisted through clenched teeth, stopping short of threatening Seaworth’s job.   

“I’ll try, Sir,” Seaworth groaned as he left the office.  Mormont had to concede that the only person in the station having a worse morning than him was probably DS Seaworth. 

* * *

Lysa Arryn

 

Lysa had hated Petyr Baelish ever since she offered herself to him at the age of fourteen and he laughed at her.  Today, he was her hero!  Sitting at the dining room table having breakfast with Harry, Lysa relished every word she read out loud.  “Oh this is splendid!” she concluded.  “Petyr has got that arrogant, self-righteous bastard backed into a corner.”

“I don’t think the detective is the kind of man who cares about what’s written about him in the newspaper one way or the other,” Harry observed, buttering his toast. 

“But his superiors do, my darling.”  Closing the newspaper, Lysa considered her options.  Yes, there were the damning statements made during their horrendous interrogations, yet Petyr might have made it possible to have those seen in a different light given the notion that Stannis Baratheon was a man obsessed.  Of course, Petyr’s main aim was to force Sansa out into the open so he could get his hands back on her. 

“Petyr may bring her out of hiding, but we need to be there to ensure she comes to us and not to him,” Lysa insisted, taking a drink of her coffee.  “You are still her fiancé.  Perhaps you should go to the reporters and insist that Baratheon let you know of her whereabouts so that you may ensure that she is alright.  That would be reasonable.  I could also call Robb . . . “

“Stop it, Lysa!” Harry moaned, dropping his toast back down onto his plate.  “I’m tired of this.  I’m tired of Sansa Stark.  And most of all I’m tired of your scheming.  She’s not going to marry me, we both know that.  Plus, Detective Baratheon told me her trust fund only gives out monthly stipends until she is thirty-five.  I am not going to live off of whatever crumbs she gives me.” 

Lysa reached over and put her hand on his muscular forearm.  It was inconceivable to her how Sansa could have passed on such a wondrous specimen of male flesh.  “You know I would help you in that area, Darling.”

“Just how much are you willing to give me, Lysa?” Harry asked, leaning closer to her.  “What is it really worth for you to keep me with you?” 

A shiver passed through her, uncertain whether it was fear or expectation.  Cat had been the great beauty, and Sansa had her beauty and then some.  The best Lysa had been able to muster was to be the third wife of a man forty-six years older than herself, and then it had taken him another sixteen years to die and leave her a rich widow.   None of the men or boys she had bedded before marrying Jon Arryn had wanted to marry her.  She didn’t expect Harry to want that either.   Still, he could leave her with some measure of dignity.  “I enjoy you in my bed, Darling.  It is a service you render me and I am willing to compensate you for it.  What more do you want from me?”

“I want,” he leaned even closer until he was able to nip her earlobe before spoke, “to have my name on a checkbook where I don’t have to worry about the check I write bouncing.”  Lysa felt his hand first on her thigh and moving until he had pushed her silk robe aside and was rubbing between her legs through her negligee.  “I want a wife who understands I’ll always fuck any woman with a pretty face and sleek body who will let me have her, but that I’ll come home to her bed afterward.”  Harry then began to bunch up the fabric of negligee until he hands could reach her bare skin underneath and push his fingers inside her as she spread her legs wide for him.  Lysa hardly cared that her servants could hear her moaning at his touch; they’d heard it before.  “Most of all, I never want to hear the names of Sansa Stark or Detective Baratheon ever again if I can help it.  No one says your little soirees have to be charity based and she won’t come to any of them that aren’t.” 

Lysa slid down further in her chair to allow him to pump his fingers in and out of her as she closed her eyes and listened to his proposal.  Her own fingers were now assisting by rubbing herself. 

Her voice was guttural when she managed to find it and answer him.  “Are you saying you’d marry me if I met your terms?”

Harry scooted his chair even closer so that he could finish the job he started and run his tongue along her neck and cheek as he did so.  He swallowed her cries with her orgasm in a kiss.  “We’re strange creatures, Lysa.  I just want to be extremely comfortable and fuck as much as I want.  You want a regular fucking and to have a man on your arm.  You never needed Sansa to keep me, Pet.  You just need a healthy checkbook that I have relatively free reign with and a blind eye to other women.  Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that you will do some very . . . nasty . . . things . . . when I ask.  We can give each other what we want.  So say yes, Lysa,” he purred into her ear.  “Say you’ll marry me and stop me from having to look for a rich wife.” 

“Oh gods yes!” Lysa groaned as he pulled his fingers from her soaking center. 

“No more Sansa Stark?”

Lysa wasn’t sure whether this insistence of Harry’s was because he believed that Stannis Baratheon would continue to hound him if he were around Sansa or whether he was angry with her for not totally succumbing to his will.  It didn’t matter.  “No more Sansa Stark!” 

* * *

Davos Seaworth

 

Today was one of those days when he asked himself WHY he had begged to be partnered with Stannis Baratheon.  Sure, he learned a volume while he worked his ass off.  But there was a price for exposure to what Baratheon could teach him and today was payday. 

Marya took the call from Baratheon while he was in the shower telling him to meet with DCI Mormont first to tell him where they were and then come to his townhouse.  Marya said he actually said the words, “Tell him not to let Mormont give him any flack over what I’ve brought about.”  _Like his saying so was going to keep that from happening!_  

The only good news in the day’s events was he could finally talk to Marya about what Baratheon seemed to be up to in antagonizing Petyr Baelish.  “It is both scary and comforting to know the lengths you would go to to protect us,” Marya reasoned as they sat down for breakfast together.  “DI Baratheon may or may not have an expectation of her returning his feelings for her, but he does strike me as the kind of man who would still go to any lengths necessary regardless.  That man does nothing in half measures.  He’s either all in or not at all.  If he cares for her, then he'll do whatever it takes and you can't stop him.  My Love, you either decide to back him up or tell him you’re stepping aside.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what to do to back him up, Marya.  I can’t watch his back all day long, every day.  If Baelish is the killer, and I’m not sure he is . . . he’s a sneaky little bastard who Baratheon may not see . . . “  Davos didn’t finish.  The idea of Baratheon not being totally prepared for Baelish at any time of the day or night wasn’t right either.  Sure, maybe Baelish could take a shot from long range.  Nothing indicated he had any experience with firearms.  Davos just needed to know how to back his partner up, and Baratheon would tell him. 

A ride into the office, one butt-chewing from Mormont, and a stop by the switchboard to ask them to redirect all calls to Baratheon’s townhouse and Davos was on his way across town.  He couldn’t believe the reporters camped out on the lawn in front of the townhouse when he arrived.  They were trying to block his way to the door and the only answer he gave to them the questions they were barraging him with was to threaten an obstruction of justice charge if they didn’t let him pass.  _Is she in there?  Is DI Baratheon in love with her?  Did you witness him staring at her portrait?  How long has he known she was alive?_

Knocking on the door, Baratheon opened it immediately.  He must have seen that he had arrived.  Glaring at the reporters who were yelling the same questions at him and asking to see Miss Stark, Baratheon let him in and shut the door immediately, locking it.  Baratheon led him into the dining room where a large antique cherry table that he wished to hell he could one day afford to buy for Marya had reports neatly laid out in some order he would eventually explain. 

Davos had to ask.  “What now?  How does all this stuff going on outside not get in the way of the investigation?”

“It does get in the way,” Baratheon agreed, picking up a report Davos had filled out on his conversation with the detective sergeant from Dreadfort and motion for him to sit down, although he remained standing.  “If I could have kept her being alive secret, there would have been no need to worry about Baelish trying again.” 

Davos wasn’t going to argue about his motives despite a real desire to do so.  “Mormont says the Commissioner is coming in midday and he wants you there.”

Ignoring him, Baratheon simply stared at the report.  “There were four shells missing from the box.  Let’s suppose Bolton took only four shells with him on his journey.  That could mean two for one person and two for another.  Baelish talked about obsession and Bolton was, by several accounts, obsessed with Miss Stark . . . “

“Mormont,” Davos cut in.  “Mormont wants you in the office.  We can talk about all this on the ride in if you want to go in one car.”

He received a glare similar to the one given to the reporters outside for his efforts.  “I couldn’t figure out why Bolton didn’t go inside and look for his wife, or if he realized he shot his wife, why he didn’t go looking for Miss Stark.”  Baratheon stopped and the teeth grinding began that came with deep thought.  “If he thought he shot Miss Stark, then he’d go to Pyke looking for his wife next.  If he’s not been on his way to Pyke or in Pyke, then where is he?” 

It went without saying that Bolton, in this scenario at least, was probably on his way home trying to cook up an alibi once he heard his wife wasn’t in Pyke.  “We can’t say he wasn’t in Pyke, found by the Greyjoys, and is now sitting at the bottom of Ironman’s Bay.” 

“The only way we’ll know that for sure is if he never shows up, and even then it could be because his father has facilitated him hiding somewhere.” 

Davos wondered if the pissed off scowl Baratheon now wore was because the idea of losing Bolton thwarted his sense of justice and might lead to his having a second unresolved case, or whether it was because it thwarted his plans to keep Sansa Stark safe. 

“What are you going to do about Mormont and the Commissioner?” Davos tried again. 

“If they want to fire me over this, they can.  You won’t go down with me,” Baratheon stated as if he were giving a mild day’s weather report.  “Whatever they do, I’ll see this through either as a detective on the force or on my own.” 

Davos realized it might just take an obsessed person to find another obsessed person.  Baelish wasn’t wrong . . . Stannis Baratheon was a man obsessed, and it was with keeping Sansa Stark safe no matter what it cost him. 

* * *

Robert Baratheon

 

While Baelish was known as The Mockingbird, Jon Varys was known as The Spider.  Robert chose to talk to Varys for more than the obvious reason that he was Baelish’s rival.  Varys had been castrated as a boy for some damage done to his testicles.  His voice and manners were effeminate, and no one really knew if he had any sexual orientation or desires of any sort.  While he never made it the subject of his radio broadcasts, Robert knew he was a champion for those who were not always following the majority, either by choice or by happenstance.  Varys would find Petyr’s references to Renly’s sexual preferences distasteful. It would make helping Robert a double pleasure for him and lessen his inclination to make an attempt to back up Baelish’s claims.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Varys crooned in a sing-song voice.  “Welcome to Varys’ Gristmill where we grind things down until all that remains is the unvarnished truth.  I have as my guest MP Robert Baratheon.  Thank you for joining us, Mr. Baratheon.

“My pleasure.”  Robert made sure he was using the calmest, most carefree voice possible at this point. 

“What a morning it has been for the Baratheon brothers!   What do you make of Petyr Baelish’s attack on your brother, a decorated detective with the King’s Landing Police Department, and of his throwing you and your other brother in with his assault?”

Robert made sure to chuckle enough for the radio to pick up, but not too much.  “First of all, anyone who knows my brother, Stannis, would know he could care less what someone like Petyr Baelish thinks of him.  If Stannis has got a fault, it would be not caring what anyone thinks of him when he is pursuing a murderer.  He’s good at his job and I personally asked him to take this case.  He had never met Miss Stark, but she is my god-daughter and I was highly distressed when I thought she had been brutally murdered.  I am still distressed for poor Mrs. Bolton.” 

“And Petyr Baelish’s attacks on you and your brother?” Varys brought him back to the second part of his question.

“It wasn’t fun to read about your past indiscretions, but they’re out there and I can’t change them.  My younger brother has a lot of friends . . . both male and female . . . and while it makes for great copy for Mr. Baelish, being someone’s friend does not necessarily make them what Mr. Baelish tried to imply.”

Varys led him next to what they had discussed before the show.  “Why do you believe Mr. Baelish attacked your brother regarding this case?  DI Baratheon has been on several high profile cases in the past without a peep from Petyr Baelish.” 

“Mr. Baelish used the word obsessed quite a bit in this morning’s column, but if you read it . . . he’s the one who sounds obsessed to me.  He starts by claiming that he his first among Miss Stark’s circle of friends.  Indeed, my brother’s biggest crime as cited by Mr. Baelish seems to be in trying to eliminate suspects before he allowed a possible killer to know he might have missed his target.  It’s possible Mrs. Bolton was the intended victim, but it was more likely it was Miss Stark.  I would understand attacking my brother if he had blithely let it be known that Miss Stark was alive and sent her out there to give a killer a second chance.” 

“Well now,” Varys mused for his listeners.  “Petyr Baelish certainly tells the reader of his great friendship with Miss Stark, at least that’s how he sees it.  You believe he is sulking because he wasn’t included in those who were notified she was alive.  That he might be looking for revenge at being considered a suspect?” 

“That’s the only thing I can think of, Mr. Varys.  His business is to create a sensation where there is none.  It’s bad enough that this murder has occurred.  Miss Stark’s family in Winterfell had to be there to tell Mrs. Bolton’s grieving father the news.  I’d also like to point out that Baelish’s rejoicing in finding out Miss Stark was alive was so insensitively handled . . . as if Mrs. Bolton’s murder was inconsequential.  Mr. Baelish has the means and opportunity to punish my brother for the audacity to consider a man who, by his own admission was close to Miss Stark, as a suspect.”

“Mr. Baelish further claims that your brother blatantly disregarded her reputation by allowing her to stay in his house,” Varys brought up next.    

“Mr. Baelish is correct that Miss Stark spent one night, and from what I heard it was actually more like five or six hours, in my brother’s home while he waited to call his superior.  A female constable was instantly sent to his home to stay with Miss Stark around the clock.  Anyone who knows my brother or Miss Stark knows neither would have been the type to do anything that would have been injurious to anyone’s reputation in the space of five or six hours.  If you knew the two of them, you would know they wouldn’t have gone there in the space of five or six days.  The key here was keeping Miss Stark safe.  She couldn’t go to friends or family . . . they all needed to be eliminated as suspects.  Certain ones, such as her brother and myself, were told as soon as we were eliminated.  Sending someone of Miss Stark’s celebrity to a hotel would have had reporters there before morning.  I applaud my brother’s actions in keeping my god-daughter safe.  I was Miss Stark’s father’s best friend and I can tell you, he would be grateful to my brother for his efforts on behalf of his daughter.”

Varys brought out the only part of this Robert really dreaded.  “What about the famed portrait of Miss Stark.  Have you seen it?”

“Indeed I have,” Robert provided.  “It's one of only two things I believe, off the top of my head, that I can agree with in Mr. Baelish’s article.  It does show Miss Stark’s stunning beauty.  The other was about her virtue.”

“What do you say to the claim that your brother stared at it for hours and came back to her apartment at night,” at this point, Varys invoked a tone one used to tell ghost stories to children, “to rifle through her things.”

Robert again scoffed, hoping the radio picked it up.  “My brother has always been one to piece things together from sources you or I might find inconsequential.  Miss Stark’s portrait was painted by an artist known for getting things exactly right at the time of the painting.  I believe my brother became suspicious of something not being right by comparing the hair color of the victim, Mrs. Bolton, with the portrait.  He also grew suspicious of the whereabouts of a particular piece of jewelry worn by Miss Stark in the portrait, but not found among her possessions.  Things were adding up, and the obsession my brother would have had would have been based on not being able to make the facts fit.  They did come together when he learned that the victim was not Miss Stark.”

“So in other words,” Varys started to conclude the program, “Petyr Baelish twisted the efforts of a good detective doing his job.”

“That he did.”

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Baratheon.  Please tell Miss Stark I hope she will join me on my show sometime in the future.” 

Robert glared at him for that last bit, but he’d done him a favor and he couldn’t make too much of it.  “Thank you again for having me and allowing me to tell the real story behind this ridiculous accusation.” 

Once the sound technician told them they were off the air, Varys turned to Robert.  “It is highly likely he will attack again, and this time on his radio program.  I’m at your service if you believe you can respond to his next volley.” 

He could tell Varys was hoping for just that.  Few, if any, wars only had one battle and Petyr Baelish had declared war as far as Robert was concerned. 

* * *

Myrcella Baratheon

 

Myrcella was given two missions by her father for the day, although it had originally only started as one.  The first was to get Sansa out the backdoor and through the neighbor’s house to meet Sandor Clegane around the block, so he could drive them to High Cliff. 

Papa laid it on pretty thick about High Cliff needing the two of them to redecorate, admitting now was a good time since she still needed to be out of sight.  It was obvious Sansa had grown weary of hiding.  It was equally obvious she only grew weary of it when she was no longer staying at Uncle Stannis’ townhouse.  Still, she was sensible enough to know she was still in danger and obviously afraid of Ramsay Bolton. 

Sansa had been in the shower when Papa knocked on her bedroom door and showed her Petyr Baelish’s column.  Myrcella could easily believe Baelish would twist things to suit his agenda and trash yet another possible contender for Sansa’s affections.  Of course, Baelish probably sensed Uncle Stannis' attraction to Sansa and pounced on it, but it was less certain that he really believed her uncle stood a chance with Sansa.  Uncle Stannis was a dark horse in that campaign, and not even a viable candidate in the eyes of many based solely on age, looks, and Uncle Stannis’ lack of personality.  What they didn’t know to factor in was how he was so unlike the men Sansa had met in King’s Landing at Lysa’s parties or Baelish’s after concert soirees, and more like Uncle Ned.  They wouldn’t know that was a good thing. 

The second mission became making sure Sansa did not see Baelish’s column.  They both decided Sansa couldn’t see the paper and Papa hid it in his briefcase before she came down for breakfast.  All phone calls were being fielded by Mrs. Caswell and Sansa was expecting reporters to call.  “I’m so sorry to put you through this!” she had apologized to both of them. 

Papa didn’t want her to read the column for fear it would upset her.  Myrcella didn’t want her to read it for fear she would march to Baelish’s office in defense of Uncle Stannis and no one could stop her.  The blush on Sansa’s face when Myrcella teased her about her lipstick not being immaculate told her everything she needed to know.  Those two weren’t on the fence anymore. 

Fortunately, Sansa asked about the paper and Papa advised her not to read it.  “Sweetheart, it is full of innuendo and supposition about your being alive and . . . you don’t want to read what they’ve written about your friend.   I’ll save it for you and maybe you can read it later when you haven’t got as much to do and can view it with a little less sorrow.”  It worked and Sansa didn’t mention it again.  Myrcella was proud of her politician father! 

The problem was their plan to leave that morning for High Cliff quickly went to pieces when reporters were at their door first thing.  They went away when Papa refused to talk to them and suggested they listen to Varys’ Gristmill for his response later today.  However, it brought up that the brownstone was undoubtedly being watched and they would probably be followed all the way to High Cliff. 

It was Mrs. Caswell who resolved the situation, smiling as she informed them that she had a key to the back door of the Blackfrye brownstone behind them.  Mrs. Caswell fed their cat when they were away and both Mr. and Mrs. Blackfrye spent their days in their antique shop or on travel buying antiques.  It just so happened they were out of town.  It was left to Papa to find a way to ensure Sandor Clegane was around the block waiting for them instead of out front, and by ten o’clock when Clegane was not knocking on their door, she had to assume the plan was set. 

Papa refused to let them take so much as their overnight cases, claiming he would find a way to get their luggage there.  And so, two young women wearing scarves around their hair and sunglasses made their way through the back garden of the Baratheon brownstone, between a small break in the hedgerow that separated their garden from the Blackfrye’s garden, and using the key from Mrs. Caswell, went through Blackfrye’s brownstone to come out their front stoop to a car awaiting them. 

Papa had warned them both that Mr. Clegane was physically scarred after a fire and was not the most pleasant man they would ever meet, but he was good at his job.  At least it made it easy to ensure they were getting into the right car.  “Good morning, Mr. Clegane,” Sansa said as she got into the back seat.  Myrcella sat up front and gave him a nod of greeting.

Sandor Clegane didn’t acknowledge either one of them.  He merely pulled away from the curb and drove off, checking the rearview mirror for signs of anyone following them.  Or at least that’s why Myrcella thought he kept looking in the rearview mirror so often. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I owe Tommyginger BIG TIME for the description of High Cliff!

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Stark

Sansa had never been to the house at High Cliff although Myrcella had spoken of having parties there with her friends from university during times when it sat empty between renters. She spent the most of the forty-minute ride to the north side of Blackwater Bay wondering what it would be like. It was on the other side of the bay from her own cottage, where some of the larger homes were located. If she knew Uncle Robert, it was a "cottage" in only the loosest sense of the word. Sansa doubted it would have anything in common with her tiny little place with its pickled wood floors, comfy overstuffed furniture, and bowls of seashells.

As Mr. Clegane drove them up a rather steep dirt road toward the top of the cliffs, there was a huge stand of oaks lining both sides that grew saw far over the road, she could barely see sunlight. The sun finally shone again as they entered a drive made of crushed oyster shells to view the front of High Cliff. Despite the size, it did retain the look of a quaint cottage with its mix of large white clapboard and painted white brick siding, cedar-shaker roof, and two chimneys. Just from the front, its perfection took her breath away. 

There was a garage off to one side as they pulled into the circular drive in front of the house. All around the front was a wall made of fieldstone and a fence made of grape stakes with flowering vines climbing up it. As they got out of the car, Sansa could see wooden trellises with climbing pink and red roses, as well as planters with boxwood topiaries. Everywhere she looked there were flowers. Whoever had laid out this front garden out had done so to give the careful illusion the flowers and vines were growing almost wild and the effect was charming. Uncle Robert most certainly paid a gardener to tend to the garden as he doubted renters would have maintained it this well. 

Off to the side, she could see what looked to be a large herb garden with fragrant sage, rosemary, thyme, and mint. Beyond it was what Sansa assumed was a kitchen garden for growing fresh vegetables. The green thumb in Sansa was itching to explore every inch of it.

Looking back to the front of the house, she noticed it was made up of large windows including a huge upstairs dormer. All that glass meant the house was probably bathed in wonderful natural light. A closer look at the front made her realize that there was no front door. Rather than ask, she followed Mr. Clegane and Myrcella around the side of the house to a charming wooden door painted blue. 

Mr. Clegane pulled out a key to unlock it and it opened onto the back of the house and a breathtaking view of the sea and bay. As much as Sansa was tempted to rush closer to the cliffs for a better look at the view, her eye was first drawn to a beautiful patio that ran the entire length of the house. Weathered red bricks were laid out in an intricate herringbone design, making it look almost as if they were walking on a carpet of some sort. A round wrought iron table with chairs allowed for sitting to enjoy the view or outdoor eating. Sansa could see more benches and a small gazebo further down towards the cliff's edge. 

There were more potted topiaries, including two huge boxwoods that had been meticulously shaped into perfect balls inside concrete planters on either side of a glass door. A wooden bench sat below a floor-to-ceiling window and more trellises with climbing honeysuckle vines had been carefully coached to run along the edge of the roof line. Once again, Sansa found herself mentally applauding the creator of the landscape for both the front and back gardens. 

The back of the house was almost entirely made of big glass windows and doors. As Mr. Clegane led them to a set of glass doors, Sansa couldn't help but notice a little playhouse off towards the back of the patio that had been built to resemble something out of a child's fairytale. Oh, how she and Robb would have loved playing in that! Arya, well, she would have made herself protector of the house as she danced around it with her fencing sword, Needle. 

Stepping through the doors, Sansa found herself in an entry that was bright and airy with gleaming cherry floors that seemed to stretch forever in all directions. Across from the door was a wall that would be perfect for an antique chest with a lamp and a bowl of fresh orchids. A mirror for last minute checks of hair, as well as lipstick or lipstick smudges, was essential Sansa thought, blushing. 

To one side was a huge room with vaulted ceilings and with a large fireplace that would be perfect for hanging a large painting over the mantle. It was large enough to be both a living room and dining room. On both sides of a huge floor-to-ceiling window were built in bookcases and that window cried out for a bench with cozy pillows and reading sconces. Most of the walls and ceilings she could see, and probably throughout most of the cottage, were painted a soft, clean white. It gave the rooms a large and airy feel while the cherry floors added warmth. 

A hallway off the living room led to two bedrooms and a large bath. Both of the rooms were bright and airy with big closets and large windows that could be cranked open for fresh air and fitted with shutters that could be closed to keep out light and muffle the sound of storms. One room had a full-sized bed while the other had twin beds. 

“When Papa bought the house, he thought Joffrey and Tommen could share this room,” Myrcella laughed as they stood in the room with the twin beds; a room that was far too feminine in décor for boys, even if Joffrey and Tommen had ever gotten along well enough to share a room. “Joffrey saw this room and that was the last day he stepped foot in High Cliff, so it became my room for the short duration Mother actually allowed us to be here.” 

“I’ll need you to sleep downstairs in these two rooms,” Mr. Clegane informed them stood in the hallway just outside the entrances to the bedrooms. “I can sleep in a chair in the front room.” 

Sansa could not imagine such a big man comfortable in a chair. Indeed, none of the beds looked big enough for him. She turned to Myrcella. “Since there are twin beds in your room, do you mind sharing with me since we shouldn’t be here too long? That way Mr. Clegane may have a room rather than a chair.”

“We’ll stay up and talk half the night anyway,” Myrcella agreed and then laughed. “Sharing one bathroom for all three of us could lead to some dissension.” 

Mr. Clegane rolled his eyes. “I’ll use the smaller room with the toilet,” he replied in a raspy growl, referring to another bathroom Sansa had yet to see. 

Following Myrcella back to the entry hall where she stopped and took it all in again. Sansa realized she must look like a child in a candy store as she noted Myrcella’s amused grin and Mr. Clegane’s more confused scrutiny. 

"Your mind is whirring already!” Myrcella said with a mischievous wink. “It’s your ideas Papa wants on decorating the place to sell. I’m just along to take notes and hold your swatches, assuming we can get any to use while we’re here.”

On the other side of the entry way was a step down into a large family room with a beautiful fieldstone fireplace and all sorts of clever storage built into the wall. More windows gave lovely views onto the front gardens and the drive leading up to the house. Just off of this room was a spacious wet bar and a butler's pantry that had Sansa so wide-eyed, it cause Myrcella to laugh again. Beautiful cherry countertops had white cabinets and drawers below and above were glass cabinets that would be perfect for storing and displaying china, silver, and other decorative serving pieces.

Sansa then stepped into the kitchen and it felt as if her heart skipped a beat. “Just breathe,” Myrcella teased, taking her hand and moving her farther inside a kitchen that was like something out of her fondest dreams! Along the left wall, there was a Highgarden door, split so that you could open the top half to look out into the herb garden and let the smell of fragrant herbs into the kitchen. The rest of the wall was taken up by a huge window with more views of the front gardens.

Along the wall immediately across from her was yet another fireplace and Sansa could just imagine making dinner while a toasty fire blazed in the hearth. There was plenty of room to flank it with a couple of deep wingback chairs and an antique table like the kind she'd grown up with at Winterfell. It was the place a family would eat their most important meals . . . together. Sansa couldn't help but envision a highchair pushed up to the imaginary table.

Turning further into the room was the heart of the kitchen itself. On one side were white cabinets above and below a grey and white marble counter top, the kind that would be perfect for rolling out pastry. There was a deep double sink and above it a wrap-around corner window with wonderful views of the gardens and patio with the small playhouse. A mother could stand here and watch little ones play. _Why am I thinking of children? Uncle Robert wants me to redecorate, not move in and start a family!_

On the back wall was a large new model ice box and opposite the sinks were more cabinets and marble counters. There was a nondescript stove with one oven, yet there was room for the kind of range Sansa has always dreamed of having, one with a large hood, a tiled niche, lots of burners and double ovens. Off the back of the kitchen ran a little hallway that opened up onto the patio. There was a mudroom with another Highgarden door. A laundry room had lots of cabinets, a deep sink for soaking and hand washing, and a fairly new washer. It also had room for one of the new electric dryers that had just hit the market. She would still want to hang certain items outside in the fresh air. 

“What do you think?” Mycella asked eagerly, knowing her answer already. 

Sansa knew her eyes were wide and she hoped she wasn’t doing anything as crass as drooling, although she wouldn’t have been surprised to find that she was. 

Mr. Clegane continued to follow them, not too close, but making it obvious he was guarding them as Myrcella took her into the hall that wound around to just behind the front entry where there were a powder room and a set of narrow wooden stairs leading to the second floor. The powder room must be what Mr. Clegane was referring to as what he would try to confine himself too, except to shower, she assumed. 

“If you want to go up there,” he rasped. It was the first she realized that the harshness of his voice was probably due to damage from the fire. “I’ll need to lead and check it out first.”

Myrcella shrugged in response and Sansa tried to be more cordial by smiling as he led them up the stairs. 

The entire second floor was taken up by the master suite, open and airy with vaulted white ceilings, huge windows with views of the front drive and the bay, plus at least the fifth fireplace Sansa had counted on the tour. The bathing room was made up of a series of rooms for privacy, culminating in a large dressing room with huge cedar closets on both walls.

Looking at the bed, she had a vision of Stannis sitting on the edge of it with his suit jacket off, his back ramrod straight, as he took off his watch and laid it on the cherry end table. Sansa gave her head a shake, willing the vision to cease and hoping no one would notice the action. 

Back downstairs in the kitchen, Myrcella rounded on her and asked eagerly, “So . . . what do you think?” 

With a little decorating and furniture changes, the only thing that kept this huge cottage from being her absolute idea of total perfection was the addition of a wing that had a master suite downstairs. She would never want to be upstairs while little ones slept downstairs. And, depending on the size of her dream family, which she couldn’t decide until she had a husband to make that decision with her, a few more children’s bedrooms might need to be added. The beauty of the house and grounds were that all of that was possible. “I think Uncle Robert may call it High Cliff Cottage,” Sansa mused, “But I call it Paradise!” 

Her comment earned a grunt from Mr. Clegane. He was one of the largest men she had ever seen. Uncle Robert was tall and a big man but the difference in Mr. Clegane was he was just as tall, but a solid wall of muscle and sinew. She guessed he was about thirty years old, although it was difficult to tell with the scaring. Uncle Robert had told them that morning that he had been in a fire and his face was extremely scarred, yet neither of them was prepared for just how much. The left side of his face was entirely given over to dark purple burn scars. Mr. Clegane wore his hair so that it covered much of that side of his face, although it hid little. Sansa could tell Myrcella found it hard to look at him while she felt enormous sympathy. He was not someone who would want anyone’s pity. 

You could tell by the right side of his face that he was an attractive man, despite it being obvious that he had no interest in clothes or grooming in general. He was clean but rumpled in every sense of the word. 

Shaking herself out of her assessment of Mr. Clegane and her awe of the house, Sansa began to consider all the items she needed to do as Uncle Robert asked and how they might procure them all. “Mr. Clegane, will you be picking up items we need, such as groceries, or will we be able to shop since we aren’t in King’s Landing?” 

“No, Miss. Mr. Baratheon said he would be sending someone with your luggage and they'll be running errands,” Mr. Clegane informed her, leaning his hip sideways against one of the countertops and folding his arms in front of him. 

Sansa knew she would be expected to cook while they were here and that was perfectly fine with her. She loved to cook, but she couldn’t do so without groceries. Opening the icebox, she found it clean and cold, but totally empty. 

“Don’t bother with the pantry either,” Myrcella informed her. “This plan didn’t have a lot of time for execution.” 

Sansa was grateful that Uncle Robert and Myrcella were going to such trouble to keep her safe. Undoubtedly Mr. Clegane was being paid for his services and Sansa knew Uncle Robert wouldn’t let her help pay, although she certainly planned to make every effort to insist it be otherwise. Still, food for this evening was going to be a problem and one she wasn’t certain, given the limitations everyone was imposing on her, how to resolve. 

“If you make a list, I could go to the local grocer,” Myrcella suggested. “My being here isn’t all that unusual.” 

Mr. Clegane cleared his throat and spoke up. “Your father gave instructions that you were to stay put too, Miss. You showing up at any of the local shops during the week could call attention to the notion that Miss Stark is here with you.” 

The frown on Myrcella’s face let both of them know she was not happy with that piece of knowledge. She was going to suggest they look in the vegetable garden to see if there was anything that might be ready to contribute to the food supply, yet neither of them was wearing shoes that wouldn’t be totally ruined if worn to walk in cultivated soil. Sansa briefly considered going barefoot, but gave that up as there was a possibility of snakes in the garden. 

“Do you think there would be any paper and pencils or pens?” Sansa inquired of Myrcella. “We might as well get started on those notes.” 

After some digging in drawers, they found a pad of paper and cache of pens, only a few of which actually worked. Sansa and Myrcella spent the next three hours making various attempts to draw a floor plan of the house and make notes, giggling and joking about changes from the sublime to the ridiculous. While focused on the house and keeping Myrcella occupied, Sansa noted that Mr. Clegane seemed to constantly be walking through the downstairs part of the house and looking at windows. 

“That’s a car,” He barked, making them both jump. Sansa hadn’t heard it, but it could be because Myrcella and she had been laughing over some horrific pink flowered wallpaper Myrcella was trying to describe having seen once and how it should be in the bedroom they would be occupying. Sansa wasn’t sure, but it might have been the first really good laugh she had managed since she arrived home to find out Jeyne was dead and everyone thought it was her. 

Sansa watched with a lump in her throat as Mr. Clegane reached around to the back of his pants waistband and pulled out a large gun that had been hidden by his rumpled suit jacket. He slowly made his way to the foyer and both of them sat in silence as a rather frightened male voice said the words, “Ours is the fury.”

Before Sansa could process what was going on, Sansa heard Myrcella squeal, a smile on her face as she sprang to her feet and ran out of the kitchen. She returned with a young man with dark hair, darker than any Baratheon, and dark eyes that currently looked a little spooked. She had only met him once briefly, but Sansa recognized Trystane Martell and even if she hadn’t, Myrcella’s beaming smile would have been all she would have needed to be reminded. “Trys brought our luggage and a dinner to warm from Mrs. Caswell,” Myrcella gushed, her affection for Trys clearly evident. “How did you get involved in all this?”

Trystane waited for Myrcella to be seated and then took the chair next to her at the kitchen table. “When I got out of chemistry class, a man dressed as a chauffeur gave me a note claiming to be from your father asking if he could see me for a few minutes. I followed the chauffeur to the car and found your father there. He basically told me what was going on and . . . well, asked me if I would volunteer to bring you supplies.” He further regaled them with a cloak and dagger story similar to how they left the brownstone, except this time it was Mrs. Caswell who had suitcases and food at the front door of their neighbor’s brownstone for him to pick up. Sansa had to wonder if these neighbors behind Uncle Robert’s home would ever be wise to what had gone on while they were away. 

Sansa knew there would come a time when Myrcella came off of the cloud of seeing him that she would question how Uncle Robert knew anything about Trys. As far as Sansa knew, he didn’t know they were dating, much less how intimate they had become. That might have changed, yet if it had, Sansa was surprised Myrcella didn’t tell her. Perhaps Myrcella was waiting to talk to him in private to find out how all this came about and she needed to give them that privacy. 

Watching the two of them, she felt another twinge of regret that Stannis wouldn’t be coming here when he finally left the station for the day. They were a long way from sitting at a table holding hands if there ever would come a day when Stannis would actually allow her to show such affection. After that kiss, he could hardly deny there was something between them. Yes, there were men like Harry who could probably kiss any woman passionately despite the fact that she always felt his kisses were more about practiced technique than actual passion. While she could not swear to it in a court of law, her heart told her Stannis Baratheon was not one with practiced technique in kissing and what they’d had was sheer passion. Holding hands was nice, but she’s trade if for a repeat of that kiss any day. 

“Will you be able to get groceries for us?” Sansa asked, hoping to dismiss herself to the bedroom and make a list. She certainly didn’t need to look to see what was already there while making such a list. 

“I’ve even been given cash so that I don’t put it on Mr. Baratheon’s account,” Trys answered. “If you want me to go today, you’d better hurry with a list because they’ll close in another hour.” 

Myrcella helped her make enough of a list to get them through until Trys returned midday tomorrow to go shopping for them again. He informed them that he was going to two of his classes in the morning, but skipping out on the rest of them. Sansa again felt guilty that so many people were involved and making sacrifices for her, even this man who didn’t know her at all. 

After Trys left for the grocer, Sansa took stock of the food prepared by Mrs. Caswell that Mr. Clegane had crammed into the icebox whether it was meant to go there or not. It was food meant to transport and be warmed easily . . . a large meatloaf, rolls that could be warmed, roasted potatoes, broccoli casserole, and a pound cake with strawberries. Myrcella helped her unwrap the dishes while Mr. Clegane alternated between watching them and looking out windows as the sun started to fade. 

Sansa flipped on the radio to occupy them while they set about warming the food. The station was one that played the jazz that Myrcella liked and after the two numbers finished, an announcer broke in, “If you missed today’s broadcast of Varys’ Gristmill with MP Robert Baratheon answering Petyr Baelish’s accusations against respected Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon and his handling of the murder case involving socialite Sansa Stark, we will be rebroadcasting it at eight o’clock. Don’t miss it!”

Myrcella looked stricken and even Mr. Clegane viewed her with concern as she looked at them trying to digest what she’d just heard. “We didn’t want you to know,” Myrcella declared, biting her lip. 

Sitting back down at the kitchen table, Myrcella flipped the radio off and sat next to her, scooting close enough to rub her back in a sympathetic gesture. “What did Petyr say?” Sansa finally managed to ask. “Do you have the newspaper here?”

“No,” Myrcella replied, her voice obviously lowered to try to be soothing. 

With eyes wide and a churning stomach, Sansa turned sideways to make sure she saw that she would brook no argument. “If I can’t read it, I need you to tell me exactly what Petyr wrote.”

Myrcella stared at her and Sansa waited until she accepted that she had no other option. Once she started, Sansa’s anger grew with each accusation she learned that Petyr had publicly hurled at Stannis in his fit of pique. How Stannis must truly rue the evening he woke up and saw her standing there. White hot anger coursed through her as she stood and walked toward the kitchen phone hanging off of the side of the cupboard at the far end of the kitchen. Mr. Clegane was beside her in two steps, jerking the phone receiver from her hand. “You can’t do that, Miss Stark,” he growled, gazing down at her. 

“You don’t even know who I am calling,” she challenged, trying to reach for the received and pull it from him only to have him surprise her with a look of sympathy, although he moved his arm back to put the receiver out of reach. 

“It doesn’t matter. Mr. Baratheon has gone to a lot of trouble to ensure your safety.”

Desperately, Sansa looked to Myrcella. “If I can’t call Petyr and make him stop, may I at least call Stannis . . . to apologize?”

“Oh Sweetheart! The day words from Petyr Baelish truly upset Uncle Stannis, the Wall will become a tropical zone. Besides, Papa put Baelish in his place on Varys’ show,” Myrcella tried to assure her. “The meatloaf should be warmed through. Trys will be back soon and we can have dinner. We can send him back with word that you want to talk to Uncle Stannis.” 

Sansa had no other choice but to comply. She strongly suspected that even if she tried to get up to use the phone in the middle of the night, Mr. Clegane would be beside her pulling the phone away in seconds. 

“No,” she said, totally deflated. If Stannis wanted to talk to her, he would find his way to High Cliff without her asking. After what Petyr had done, she couldn’t blame him if he wanted to solve the case and never see her again. But oh how she missed him . . . how she wanted to see him or talk to him, despite the fact that she doubted Stannis would stay on a phone for more than two minutes. Most of all, Sansa wanted him to look at her with those intense dark-blue eyes and perpetual scowl, and tell her this would all be over soon and when it was, he wouldn’t wish her far far away. 


	19. Chapter 19

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

Nothing was going as he expected, and this was the one case where that was totally unacceptable to him.  Mormont and the Commissioner were telling him to keep the all-points-bulletin out for Ramsay Bolton and leave it at that.  They wanted this case on the back burner and for Seaworth and him to move on to the next case.  But he couldn't make himself do that until he knew Sansa was safe.  And she wouldn't be safe as long as Bolton was on the loose somewhere.   Robert was pulling out all the stops with his cloak-and-dagger schemes to keep Sansa safe, but she couldn't stay hidden away forever.  Eventually she and Myrcella would have to come back to the real world.  And then what?  For perhaps the first time in his career, Stannis was at a loss. 

As for Petyr Baelish, Robert’s rebuttal on Varys’ radio program was quite unexpected, as was Renly’s statement of support through a Barasteel press release.  Visiting Robert that afternoon, Robert merely shrugged it off by saying that only he and Renly could take him to task . . . no one else.  Thinking about it, he felt the same way.  Stannis would never allow someone other than himself to berate either of his brothers.  Whether intentional on Robert's part or not, it played well into Stannis' own plans to start a war with Baelish that would keep him focused on him instead of Sansa.  Hopefully, the little worm would eventually make a slip, any slip, and Stannis would be there to charge him. 

If there was a war, he'd never know it from Baelish's next column and radio show. Baelish made no attempt to answer Robert's charges against him or to fire back at Jon Varys' taunts.  At first Stannis suspected Robert might have persuaded his former good-father to step in. Tywin Lannister owned the newspaper and the radio station, and was really the only one who could have called Baelish off. But when Stannis asked him about it, Robert laughed and said if Tywin knew he wanted Baelish stopped, he'd probably give the man a bigger column and double his salary. There were hard feelings between the two after his divorce from Cersei and the only reason Tywin didn't go after Robert more in his paper was fear it might come back to bite him and cost him readers. There were no favors to be called in from that corner. Which made it all the more strange that Baelish was passing on this opportunity to make Robert collateral damage in his war on Stannis. 

Baelish's column the day after broke the news that Lysa Arryn had married Harrold Hardyng.  His "attack" on Stannis at the end of the column amounted to little more than a slap on the wrist:

> You may recall Hardyng was recently engaged to famous socialite Sansa Stark. It seems Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon managed to somehow end that engagement, and for that I owe him my thanks. Maybe the detective's obsession with Miss Stark is good for something, after all. I still say his methods of keeping Miss Stark hidden away are heavy-handed, but it seems her own family has turned her over to him entirely. Her great-uncle, famed military leader Brynden Tully, informs me he and the rest of her family want Sansa Stark hidden away until the late Jeyne Bolton's husband can be found and questioned.
> 
> This does make me wonder what happens if Bolton never turns up. Will Baratheon keep her locked away forever, like a brooding dragon guarding a princess in a tower? Let's hope not.  Sansa Stark is far too important to the charities she supports and the friends who love her to deprive us of her presence much longer.  Come out, come out wherever you are, Ramsay Bolton! 

Stannis had to admit that the longer Ramsay Bolton hid from police, the less guilty Petyr Baelish looked. If Bolton was innocent, it was likely his father would have already hired a high-powered attorney to negotiate his surrender for questioning.  Stannis thought that would be the smart play even if he were guilty. So far, there was no sign of Bolton and his father appeared to care nothing about his son. 

Despite the fact that he couldn’t deny how guilty Ramsay Bolton looked, concern about how Petyr Baelish would handle Sansa’s decision to distance herself from him wouldn’t leave him alone.  Baelish wasn’t wrong about one thing; his decisions were very much clouded by his personal feelings for her.  Robert had to scrap his plans to go to High Cliff during the evening as reporters were still watching his every move.  At least two were camped out in their cars near his house and followed him wherever he went.  He wanted to see Sansa and this was making it difficult, but not impossible.  Robert wasn’t happy not seeing either of them, especially his daughter, after a full day and a half with no communication. 

Barasteel had a private parking garage that meant reporters wouldn't be able to see who left in what car. Robert and Stannis met at Renly's office just before six.  Renly had a take-out dinner waiting for them and as they ate, it occurred to Stannis they probably hadn't all been in the same room together in years.  As much as he loathed to admit it, Petyr Baelish had done what even their own parents couldn't . . . force the Baratheon brothers to get along for an hour without bickering. 

Davos Seaworth arrived shortly after they finished dinner, armed with the Barasteel parking pass Stannis had given him before he left the station.  He was more than happy to trade his older Chevy for Stannis' new Buick for the night.  First Seaworth and then Robert's limousine driver left the garage with instructions to drive around for an hour before going home. 

Stannis and Robert got into Seaworth's car and headed to High Cliff.  During the drive, Robert chatted and Stannis listened.  It was mostly about how Trystane Martell looked like he was about to mess himself when Robert asked to meet him.  Laughing that guttural laugh of his, Robert added, “I’d have loved to have seen Myrcella’s face when he showed up and told her I sent him.  I don’t know who she thinks she was fooling!” 

“Just how did you find out about them?”  Stannis asked, finally contributing to the conversation. 

“You don’t think this is the first time I’ve paid Clegane for his services do you?” Robert huffed.  Stannis did not approve of Robert spying on his daughter’s private life, although he was just beginning to get a taste of the lengths a man will go to protect those he cares about. 

One look at High Cliff and Stannis suspected Sansa had been captivated at the sight of it.  How he thought he knew this when he really barely knew her, except perhaps through her diary, was a mystery to him.  They were met at the door by Sandor Clegane, brandishing his Colt .45 pistol.    ‘This way,” he said gruffly when he saw them.  Robert didn’t bother to introduce them. 

Clegane led them into a kitchen that rivaled the one at Storm’s End.  There was a table in the middle of the kitchen where Myrcella and a young man he assumed to be Trystane Martell sat with cards in their hands and matchsticks all over the table.  “Poker!” Robert barked by way of a greeting, kissing the top of his daughter’s head.  “How do I get dealt in?” 

A quick survey of the table showed only three players.  “Where’s Sansa?” Stannis asked, without any special greeting to anyone. 

“She’s upstairs,” Myrcella informed him, not taking her eyes off her cards.

Alarmed that Sansa did not respond to hearing Robert’s voice, which he couldn’t imagine not carrying throughout even a house this size, Stannis looked for the staircase and took them two at a time.   “Sansa!” he called when he got to the top, looking around the large bedroom for her. 

“Stannis?” he heard her call from down the hallway straight ahead of him, panic in her voice.   

Stannis quickly made his way down the hall in search of her.  The hall entered into a room with an open doorway that he didn’t think about entering until he had already done so.  At first, the sight he found sent a surge of relief through him, followed immediately by a heat rising in his cheeks . . . and yet, he could not look away from Sansa as she lay back in the clawfoot bathtub, her hair piled on top of her head, and her body discretely covered with bubbles.  Her cheeks were pink, but Sansa did not tell him to leave as their eyes locked and held. 

“I was worried,” Stannis finally muttered, attempting an explanation.  He knew he should turn away from her; he couldn’t seem to manage it. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she replied softly and then her blue eyes went wide and she reddened even more.  “Not here exactly . . . I mean, I’m not saying you have to go . . . I only meant . . . uh . . . are they still playing poker?” 

“Yes.”  Stannis uttered, his eyes not leaving the sight before him. 

“Has Ramsay been found?” she asked, sinking down to make sure more of the swell of her breasts were covered by the bubbles. 

“Uh . . . no.  I’m sorry.”  He was completely at a loss for what to do.  There was what he wanted to do, which was to kneel down beside the tub, take the cloth from her hands, and drink in the sight of her as he bathed her.   Then, there was what he should do, which was leave her to her bath in peace. 

Sansa made the decision for him.  “There's a patio outside the kitchen with a table and chairs.  Would you meet me there after I get dressed?”

Nodding to affirm he would meet her there, Stannis went back downstairs and into the kitchen.  Robert looked up at him and then to Myrcella.  “I’m not sure which one of us won!” he claimed, raising an eyebrow as everyone at the table looked at him. 

“I supposed you won because you said he’d come running down and I said she’d scream.  He’s not running, but she didn’t scream,” Myrcella reasoned with a grin while everyone else at the table watched him for a reaction.  “Then again, maybe you didn’t go all the way into the bath?” 

Irritated at being the brunt of their amusement, Stannis chastised her, “You should have stopped me.” 

“You went flying up the stairs before I had a chance!” she protested half-heartedly. 

Robert viewed him through squinted eyes.  “You didn’t really walk in on her taking a bath, did you?”

“A bubble bath, Papa,” Myrcella corrected.  “Trust me.  She was carpeted with bubbles or I would have run up after him . . . I wouldn’t have been able to catch him at the rate he was going, but I’d have given it a try.”

Stannis had quite enough and made his way outside to wait for Sansa.  A gas lamp gave enough light to see the table and chairs without being able to see much of the garden.  It seemed like an hour before the door opened, despite knowing it was more like fifteen minutes.  Stannis stood, remembering the outfit she wore or at least part of it.  It was the same pair of ladies trousers she wore at his townhouse, although the blouse was different.  Her hair was still arranged loosely on top of her head as it had been in the bath.   

She stopped about a foot in front of him.  “I’ve missed you.”

“The townhouse is deafeningly quiet, my food is tasteless, and I keep sniffing around for the smell of flowers,” Stannis admitted, unsure why he couldn’t just tell her he missed her too.  He usually opted for fewer words, not more. 

“Petyr’s column,” Sansa began, looking down and lowering her voice. “How you must wish you’d never met me.”

The last thing Stannis wanted was for her to feel any guilt over something he goaded Baelish into doing.  “If I wish I’d never met you, it’s not because of Petyr Baelish’s column.  It would be because I’m no longer satisfied with a quiet townhouse, bland food, and the smell of plain air.”  He was pleased to see her smile and not entirely surprised or unhappy when she stepped closer and put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.  He didn’t need to turn to look into the window to know the poker game had stopped and everyone was watching them.  It took him all of a half-second to figure out he didn’t care and awkwardly put his arms around her, holding her to him.   He would deal with Robert later. 

“Jeyne was buried today,” Sansa whispered, her voice choked.  “What must her father think at my not being there?” 

Stannis knew he was supposed to be comforting her somehow, yet he had no clue what to do for her except listen.   “There is a part of me that is . . . it’s as though I was lost and now I’m back with the people I should be with and I’m happy until I remember Jeyne and . . . I don’t know what to think.” 

“I know very little about happiness,” he whispered in her ear.  “I’ve been suspect of it all my life.  So the idea of me telling anyone to hold on to any happiness while they can is more than a little hypocritical.  But you deserve to be happy, Sansa.  You wanted to help Jeyne and you didn’t turn her away when she came to you for help.  What happened was not your fault.  It was the fault of the person who pulled the trigger and _that_ is the person whose right to happiness should be taken away.”

Sansa relaxed her hold around his neck and pulled back until she was able to meet his gaze.  “And if you are what makes me happy?  Has Petyr made that impossible?  Your superiors won’t like to see us together after the way he twisted it.”

“I thought we were going to wait to figure this out,” Stannis countered, unconsciously tightening his hold on her. 

She smiled sheepishly before they both briefly glanced at the window when they heard Clegane yell out something about bluffing.  Looking back at him, she continued.  “I had it all figured out when I saw you sitting on the bed taking off your watch.” 

“What?”  Stannis could not remember her being there when he sat on his bed and took off his watch.  He was absolutely certain he would have remembered that. 

Her only response was a light laugh and to bring her arms down from around his neck.  “Come on, Stannis.  Let me show you around this amazing house.” 

As Sansa showed him each room, telling him not only what she would change in decoration, but about a wing she would add, Stannis had rather enjoyed seeing her so animated.  She didn’t explain why she preferred a master suite downstairs, and yet he didn’t need to ask.  This was a woman who wouldn’t want to be on a separate floor from her children, and she wanted children.  It amazed him to realize that didn’t scare him or give him any other thought other than to find a first-floor master suite sensible. 

Later in the car on the way back to King’s Landing, Robert finally brought up the subject he knew was coming.  “If I ask you whether you’re in love with Sansa, would you even be able to answer me?”

“I wouldn’t tell you before I told her,” Stannis deflected.  Robert was one who could throw that word around easily.  Renly once said Robert probably told every woman he was ever with that he loved her except the one he married.  Stannis knew he cared about Sansa more than any woman he’d ever known, yet he wasn’t ready to say he was in love with her . . . even if he knew, deep down, it was true.    

Robert wasn’t going to let it alone.  “Myrcella seems to think the two of you are a good match.  I can’t see it, but what the hell do I know . . . except that you’re the one more likely to come up short if this ends badly.” 

He wasn’t about to admit that vulnerability to his older brother, but Stannis was all too aware that he was absolutely right. 


	20. Chapter 20

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sandor Clegane

 

Giving the people he watched nicknames had become a habit he developed early as a private investigator.  It helped Sandor pass the time and amused him.  Amusement was few and far between on most jobs.  Sometimes the names were about them and sometimes the names were about who they associate with.  When you're getting paid to watch people, you noticed all sorts of things about them, and about who they are around.  It’s meant to help protect them, such as in this case, or to help find out something about them or what they’re doing.  The nicknames were an outcropping of the effort. 

Myrcella was easy . . . a Goldilocks if ever there was one.  This wasn't the first time Robert Baratheon, or Big Guy as Sandor had begun to refer to him in his head, had hired him to keep an eye on her.  She was young, rich, and her daddy was a big wheel in politics.  She'd be the perfect mark for someone trying to make trouble for her daddy's campaign.  Luckily, all he'd turned up was that she had a boyfriend, and a fairly serious one at that.  He seemed nice enough and treated her right and that's what he'd reported.  Not his business what the Big Guy thought about the idea they were probably sleeping together.  He’d never verified it, and for that reason, he had no trouble looking her in the eye without feeling guilty. 

Sansa Stark was another easy one to name.  She was Little Bird . . . always flitting around the house doing something, often humming or singing while she did it.  She'd apparently bought into the whole "redecorating" scheme hook, line, and sinker.

Little Bird was a beauty, rich, sweet natured, and one helluva cook.  What he liked best about her was the way she looked at him . . . always right in the eye.  That was rare, especially with women.  They usually took one look at his burns and ran or they politely looked at his shoulder instead of his face.  Often, again like Goldilocks, if he was around them long enough, they got used to him and stopped talking to his shoulder or his chest.  Little Bird smiled at him the first time she looked at him and didn’t turn away.  He suspected there was some pity in her eyes and he didn't need that from anyone.  But it sure beat the hell out of fear or disgust.

He tried not to stare at her too much, but it was tough when she looked the way she did.  When she caught him staring, she seemed to dismiss it as all part of his job and he was more than happy for her to go right on thinking that.   How the fuck she had made it to twenty-three years old without someone putting a ring on her finger was a mystery.  He'd read in the papers that she'd been engaged before she was "murdered," but had apparently called it off.  If he heard Goldilocks right when they were playing poker last night, the fucking idiot fiancé had already up and married Little Bird's cunt of an aunt . . .  the same woman who'd known she was alive all along and didn't tell anyone.  Rich people were friggin' crazy! 

The rumor he couldn't believe was the one that little shit Baelish was spreading.  Before his burns and his early retirement from the force, he'd seen Stannis Baratheon around the station.  Never met him, but then you didn't need to meet him to know Baratheon's reputation.  The word was that he was more iron than flesh, blood, and bones, which is why Sandor had nicknamed him Ironman.  It went with the ramrod straight way he stood . . . as if there was an iron rod crammed up him to hold him that way.    

It was common knowledge at the KLPD that when Ironman had a case, he was relentless.  The idea of him being at a crime scene at all hours of the day or night wasn’t a shock.  Ironman being obsessed with a case was standard procedure by all accounts.  What Sandor found friggin’ ridiculous  . . . until last night . . . was the notion of Ironman falling in love with the not-so-dead victim in this case.  He could understand most men, including himself, not being immune to Little Bird.  But Ironman?

The notion that he was wrong started to gain traction when Ironman left a smoke trail to go up the stairs after asking where Little Bird was, causing the others at the table to snicker.  The Big Guy mused that he didn’t know what had Ironman so wound up over her being upstairs, followed by Goldilocks telling him it was about to get really amusing.  The Big Guy’s eyes got huge when Goldilocks told him Sansa was up there in a bath and if Ironman didn’t slow down, he’d walk in on her.  The guy started to stand like he was going to run up after him until Goldilocks calmed him down by adding that Little Bird was taking a bubble bath and Ironman wouldn’t see a thing.   The Big Guy let loose with one of his trademark belly laughs and said he bet five dragons that the next thing they heard would be the pounding of his brother’s feet as he came flying down those stairs.  Goldilocks took the bet, claiming Little Bird would scream first and _then_ you’d hear her uncle run. 

Except they didn't hear anything . . . no scream and no running . . . for a good five minutes.  When Ironman did return to the kitchen, he expressed his irritation at not being warned.  Sandor would have bet ten dragons that Little Bird, even if completely covered in bubbles, would have let loose with a virginal scream of indignation at any man walking in on her.  He also would have bet Ironman would have run like hell from such a scene unless it was a crime scene.  It did make him wonder what the fuck took place.  Five minutes wasn’t time for it to be anything really interesting, yet it was long enough for him to suspect there was some truth to Baelish’s claim . . . maybe not exactly as he wrote about it, but of there definitely being something between them. 

All doubt was erased once Ironman went out on the patio only to be followed out there by a freshly bathed Little Bird.  Sandor made a habit of sitting in a location in a room where no one could come up behind him and he had the best visibility of as many areas as possible.  Where he sat at the table in the kitchen afforded him a view into all of the kitchen, and entrances to the rooms coming off of it, as well as the windows outside.  Rich boy manners kicked in and Ironman stood when she walked out.  They stood fairly close for a couple of minutes and talked, her back to the kitchen and him with only a slight scowl on his face.  Sandor tried not to be obvious in his observing their interaction.  They talked for a minute or two, standing only a few feet apart, if that much.  Ironman wore a scowl, although nothing as fierce as what he’d given Goldilocks over the bath incident. 

Ironman’s expression didn’t change, though he obviously said something that Little Bird liked because she put her arms around his neck and hugged herself to him.  Sandor knew his eyes had gone too wide when the Big Guy looked at him and then followed his eyes to the window.  “I’ll be damned,” was all the man had to say.  Goldilocks didn’t seem to find it at all unusual as she glanced over her shoulder to see what the fuss was about and smiled before returning her attention back to the table and calling the current bet.  Trystane Martell, or Baby Bear to keep with the kiddie tale, seemed only mildly surprised by the scene, following his girlfriend’s lead and turning his attention back to the game. 

Sandor still couldn’t keep his eyes from glancing out the window as much as he could get away with.  Neither could the Big Guy.  Between the moonlight and the gas lamp, there was an eerie glow around them as the Ironman held her, whispering in her ear.  What the hells a slightly balding, middle-aged, scowling Ironman could say to put such a look of peace on Little Bird’s face was beyond him.  If there was any way he could find out short of asking, Sandor would love to know. 

The day after the poker game, Sandor was up early checking security.  Once he was satisfied, he was amused that he didn’t hear Little Bird stirring, trying to get up to fix breakfast for whoever was up.   He’d told them to wear pajamas or nightgowns, whatever the hell they wanted to wear, that they wouldn’t be upset at being seen in or cover up because he would check on them.  Opening the door of the bedroom Little Bird and Goldilocks occupied, he saw all was well.  Both were sleeping soundly.  This was the first time Little Bird slept through one of his checks.  Maybe whatever Ironman had said to her the previous night made her sleep easier or deeper.  If so, those were dreams he’d rather not see.  Sandor wasn’t against a little voyeurism when he got the chance, but not Little Bird . . . ever  . . . unless he got an opportunity to be the man she was with and there was a mirror overhead.  That was something he didn’t see happening.  Little Bird was a one-man bird, and if she decided Ironman was no longer that man, Sandor seriously doubted she would go for the nearing-middle-age, burned, and brawny type. 

It was another hour and a half before he heard the shower running and another forty minutes more before an immaculately dressed Little Bird made her way into the kitchen.  “Good morning,” she greeted, attempting to be as sunny as her bright yellow dress, although it was obvious she could have slept another hour or more. 

“Morning,” he rasped, watching her put on an apron and begin flitting around from place to place in the kitchen like a little bird.  In no time, she had bacon, pancakes, strawberries, syrup, and coffee laid before him and a half-awake Goldilocks.  _Damn, how that woman_ _could_ _cook!_   Before they finished breakfast, Baby Bear had arrived since it was the weekend.  It was then that his troubles began.  The first was Goldilocks’ insistence that she go with Baby Bear to the local shops since it was the weekend and not unusual for them to be seen there together.  He hoped for assistance from Little Bird in talking them out of it and got no help there.  Sandor assumed she felt some guilt about Goldilocks being locked in with her. 

His day got worse when Little Bird asked him to drive her almost two hours around the bay to her cottage on the south shore.  She had a host of reasons and arguments.  “I have magazines there that would help me show Uncle Robert things that would spruce up this house.  Most of all, I have the address for my housekeeper.  She needs my check to live on and I forgot to give one to DI Baratheon to take to her.  Please, Mr. Clegane!  She is an older woman who would find it very difficult without her pay.”

“I’d have to stop to fuel up.  You could be seen,” he argued.  “The Big Guy gave me instructions to keep you safe.”

“To keep me safe,” Little Bird repeated, those dazzling blue eyes of hers pleading.  “Did he say that you had to keep me right here to do that?”

Sandor rolled his eyes at her.  “It was implied and you know it.”

“I will be in the car with you and I’ll wrap my hair in a scarf and wear sun glasses.  No one will notice me when we stop.  Reporters will have given up on the cottage, especially since the story of my being alive is older now.  I am sure they are pulling reporters back every day from this, and certainly not keeping them over an hour away every day to watch the cottage.” 

No one could convince him that she wasn’t giving him the sweet face on purpose.  However, she had a point.  His instructions were to keep her safe.  Sandor gave a few more half-hearted protests so he could tell himself he’d made the effort.  The truth of the matter was he didn’t like being cooped up and a long drive with a change of scenery wasn’t his first option for relieving that.  However, it was an option and one he felt he could control. 

She did exactly what she said she would and covered her hair with a scarf that ended up tired around her neck.  Even with sunglasses, he still could have picked her out with her height and creamy white skin.  Despite that, if no one was thinking of her specifically when they looked at her, they weren’t likely to identify her as Sansa Stark.  In less than a half hour, they were in his Ford Coupe and headed around the bay.

Little Bird was an amiable traveling companion.  She didn’t feel the need to talk, yet for the first hour, she pointed out small things in the way of conversation, such as a family eating a picnic and a one-sail craft and how she always wanted to go sailing.  Sandor couldn’t help wonder what she would talking about with Ironman right now if he were driving her to the south shore, or if she would be the same with him.  Somehow, he couldn’t picture Ironman any better at small talk than he was. 

During the second hour, just after an uneventful stop for fuel that she insisted on paying for, Little Bird worked up the courage to ask about how he got burned.  She asked him if he would tell her rather than blurt out the question as some did.  In a way, his burns were the elephant in the room and he hated them being avoided just as much as he hated them being the primary focus of people’s attention. 

“I was a vice cop, a sergeant,” Sandor began, keeping his eyes on the road as she move to sit somewhat sideways on the bench seat to give him her full attention. He would give her the short version.  “Part of the job was rooting out makers of illegal hooch . . . alcohol . . . and shutting down their operation.  My partner and I, with about six uniforms, raided the largest operation we’d seen yet.  It was a warehouse set to look like a metal parts manufacturing place, only they didn’t count on the smell.  Most of them didn’t smell it anymore to realize you could smell it outside the warehouse.”

“Oh Sandor!” she cut in, calling him by his given name.  “It was an alcohol fire?  How many were hurt?”

He shrugged, trying to make light of it.  “Others had more shrapnel from the blast to deal with than burns.  One of the bastards deliberately shot the still I was standing near in a vulnerable spot to create a diversion to get away.”

“Did they get caught?” Little Bird asked.  Sandor’s heart melted a bit when he saw a few tears escape underneath her sunglasses before she wiped them with her forefinger. 

“My brother is now doing sixty years in the Vale Penitentiary.”

“Your brother!” Little Bird shrieked.  It was the most unladylike sound he’d heard from her and Sandor found he quite liked it.  “Tell me that is a joke!”

“Nope,” Sandor rasped with a snort.  “There were ten stills in that warehouse and he deliberately set off the one near me.  Not that I wanted any of my colleagues to suffer this shit.”  With a grunt he added, “We obviously didn’t get along.” 

He imagined if Little Bird took off the sunglasses, he would see a good bit of shock in her blue eyes.  “Did you know he would be there when you raided the warehouse?”  

“Had my suspicions,” Sandor admitted.  Actually, he knew Gregor was involved in all sorts of criminal activities, just didn’t know which ones specifically at the time.  The idiot had wanted to build a criminal empire to rival the Greyjoys, only he didn’t have islands to shield him and his arrogance was his own worst enemy. 

“Do you have any other brothers and sisters?”

This was a place he didn’t want to go; a story he didn’t want to tell.  He had no idea how his sister died at the age of twelve, and while he suspected Gregor had a hand in that as well, he didn’t know for sure.  “None that live,” was his clipped answer.  He was relieved when she didn’t pursue it with more questions. 

Little Bird gave him directions once they got close that took them down some heavily wooded lanes to a small white clapboard cottage with a view of the bay from behind.  All looked relatively peaceful.  “I’m going to have a look around first.  Got keys?”

“This is to both the front and back doors,” Little Bird said, providing him a keychain that had a gold direwolf, harkening back to the days when the landed families, which the Starks were, had sigils. 

Sandor gave her his firmest, no-nonsense stare.  “Stay here until I tell you it’s okay,” he instructed as she took off her sunglasses.  “And keep your hand on the car horn.  Blast the damn thing if you have any trouble or see anyone.” 

Nodding, Little Bird reached her hand over to the steering wheel, ready to follow his instructions.  She had promised to give him no trouble and was being absolutely compliant. 

This first look was at the wooded area around him.  There had been no cars parked along the lane coming in, or even on the road that led to the lane.  That was a good sign.  Sandor carefully surveyed the heavily wooded area outside of the cottage from the front side, and then walked around to the back where an area for a garden and small patio had been cleared with a view out to the bay. 

Sandor’s first sign of trouble came from the back door looking as though it had been pried open.  The wood on both the door and the door frame showed where paint and been rubbed off and the wood dented from something like a pry bar.   The marks were obviously fresh, but someone had already tried to repair the door. 

Taking his Colt out of his waistband, Sandor used the key and entered the back door into a kitchen.  It looked like something Little Bird had a hand in.  The walls were some shade of green that he couldn’t begin to name and plenty of glossy white bead-board paneling that made the room look larger than it was. 

Sandor realized it smelled like something had been cooked in that kitchen recently . . . sausages.  Walking over to the little white stove, he laid his free hand on the iron grate of the burner.  It wasn’t hot; however, it had plenty of time to cool down since breakfast.  He stopped and listened, not hearing anything.  Part of him wanted to go further into the house to investigate, but his first priority was to get Little Bird out of there. 

Backing away from the stove, Sandor heard a whistle from the adjoining doorway.  Raising his Colt and turning toward the noise, he saw the baseball bat coming down as he tried to fire . . .

The first thing Sandor felt was excruciating pain as he realized he was on the floor surrounded by something wet around his face.  It took effort to open his eyes as he realized he was lying in his own blood. 

“Please let me see if I can stop his bleeding!” He heard Little Bird pleading in a choked voice.  “I’ll go with you quietly if you’ll let me see to him first.” 

Like hell she will!  It hurt like fuck-all to open his eyes and when he did, things were swimming.  He could make out the back of a man dressed in baggy trousers and a plaid shirt holding one of Little Bird’s arms with one hand and his Colt with the other.    

“Baby, you’re going with me no matter what,” he heard the whiny voice from the man he assumed to be Ramsay Bolton.  “I’m not waiting for you any longer.  You’re mine and it’s time you understand that.  You should have known it from the beginning.  I did!  So don’t talk to me about being responsible for Jeyne.  She’d be safely at home with her father or married to someone idiot enough to take her on if you’d accepted you were mine from the beginning.”

“I’ll be yours,” Little Bird replied, biting her lip.  “But not if you let him die.”  She looked around Bolton at him and Sandor saw that she realized he was awake.  Little Bird quickly turned her attention back to Bolton.  _Good girl . . . keep him distracted!_  

“You have no choice.  I let you go once and I’m not doing it this time,” Bolton took a step closer to her and Sandor wanted to reach out and rip his head off as he pressed Little Bird up against the kitchen wall with his body, the Colt held by his side.  “I would close my eyes and try to pretend she was you.  It never worked.  She dyed her hair, dressed in your clothes, and wore your perfume, but she wasn’t you.  I am so damned glad to be free of her!”

Stealth wasn't easy for a man his size under the best of conditions.  He needed to get to the extra gun he had strapped to his ankle. Sandor could still feel the weight of it, meaning the asswipe hadn't checked him for other weapons.  It was a small 25-caliber pistol, not the best for killing a man but it might get them out of this mess alive. 

Little Bird must have seen him trying to go for his ankle, for she did something unthinkable.   Even with his impaired vision, he could see the misery on Little Bird’s face as she put her arms around Bolton’s neck and went to kiss him.  The shitass went for it like he was having his last meal.  It gave Sandor both the time and the anger he needed to fight through the pain and dizziness to reach his spare gun.  Bolton heard the movement, but was slowed down by her arms around his neck holding on for all she was worth.  With blood dripping down his face and blurry vision, Sandor needed to get Bolton to at least step back from her in order to ensure she wasn’t in the line of fire. 

“Let go and run!” Sandor growled as loud as he could.  Fortunately, Little Bird excelled at taking orders for she did exactly what he told her.  She let go of Bolton’s neck and when he turned, brandishing the Colt, she pulled free of him and ran toward the doorway to the adjoining room.    

The first bullet hit Bolton in the shoulder, yet he was still able to raise his arm.  Sandor had hoped to stop short of killing the bastard, but it wasn’t to be.  He looked into a pair of evil eyes ready to fire and despite his pain and blurred vision, Sandor managed to put the second shot into his chest.  This dropped him and he let go of Sandor’s Colt .45.  “Kick it away,” he grunted. 

Again, Little Bird did as she was told.  The girl kicked it underneath the kitchen stove and they were damned lucky it didn’t go off.  He heard rather than saw her going toward the sink and just as she knelt by his side with a towel to wrap around his head, they heard the last words of Ramsay Bolton, “I love you, Sansa.” 


	21. Chapter 21

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

 

Logic kept Stannis from being able to strongly protest when Mormont insisted that there was nothing more they could do on the Bolton murder case and that they pick up the next case.  As cases go, the murder he and Seaworth were called in for that morning was wrapped up by the afternoon.  Stannis felt good about getting Seaworth back to his family for at least part of the day. 

Leaving the scene, Seaworth was pulling away from the curb in the motor pool Chevy when the radio squawked, “Dispatch to One-Damon.”

Detectives very seldom got radioed directly by the dispatcher unless there was an emergency while out on a case.  Stannis picked up the radio mic, “One-Damon.” 

The staticy box squawked back.  “The South Shore Sheriff’s office has requested you respond to a one-eighty-seven at one-four Seashell Lane on the South Shore.  The Sheriff’s office has jurisdiction and advises that one of your wanted is on the scene.”

Stannis felt a cold chill go through him.  A one-eighty-seven was a homicide and he’d seen that address enough in reports on the Bolton case.  That was Sansa’s cottage.  She should be at High Cliff, but he had no way of guaranteeing that.  Seaworth recognized the address too and stepped on the accelerator. 

“One-Damon,” the box squawked again, “Do you copy?”

In a voice he barely recognized as his own, Stannis held the mic handle down and acknowledged.  “We copy and are en route.  Do you have any information on the victim?”

The box didn’t answer right away and he stared at it while Seaworth navigated traffic to get to the highway to the south shore.  “No additional information,” was the unsatisfying answer. 

“Copy.  Request a phone call to Boulevard Nine, Two Six Two Seven, to ask the whereabouts of a Mrs. Marsh,” Stannis instructed back to dispatch. 

It was another ten minutes before the radio squawked back at them again with its usual “Dispatch to One-Damon,” and Stannis answering back to verify they were One-Damon.  “No one is answering at Boulevard Nine, Two Six Two Seven.” 

“Copy!” Stannis growled before he threw the mic down to the floor rather than replace it in the radio.   The sound in his ears was the sound of his teeth grinding.  At least Seaworth knew better than to try to make inane remarks about how it wasn’t what he was thinking.  They both knew there was a high probability it was exactly what he was thinking. 

For another forty-five minutes, Stannis could do nothing more than sit and wait until they got there.  He couldn’t ask Seaworth to drive any faster; he had the siren on and was going as fast as the Chevy could manage.  The only time he remembered feeling fear and dread like this was when Robert and he watched their parent’s sailboat sink within sight of Storm’s End.  _Could those gods he didn’t believe in be so cruel as to do something like this to him twice?  Could they bring her back to life once only to take her away again?_  

The fact that dispatch wasn’t telling him who the victim was ratcheted Stannis’ sense of panic.  For every second he told himself Clegane was capable of keeping her safe, there was a minute of imaging a scenario where someone could get the jump on him, even someone physically unable to subdue him.  One on one, neither Ramsay Bolton nor Petyr Baelish could take Clegane unless he didn’t see them coming.  Stannis tried to remind himself of what he observed last night.  Clegane knew where to sit in the kitchen for maximum visibility.  His eyes had been constantly moving, even while he was playing cards.   He was good, so there was hope . . . at least Stannis tried to hold on to that possibility.  Still, it didn’t stop him from seeing the image of Jeyne Bolton lying on the floor of Sansa’s apartment with her face shot off. 

While Stannis was running scenarios and trying to talk himself into believing Sansa being the victim was a thirty-three percent possibility, not a hundred percent, he thought about the last time he saw her.  Sansa had been overflowing with excitement at showing him High Cliff and making plans.  He remembered recalling it later that night and wondering if she was hinting that there was some future for them together and that High Cliff should be part of it.  He remembered chastising himself as a fool for the thought.  Most of all, he remembered holding her in his arms.  If he ever got his arms around her again, he wasn’t certain he could ever let go.   

Once they pulled up to the cottage, Stannis surveyed the scene and saw four Sheriff’s cars and one ambulance.  As Stannis opened the door before Seaworth brought the Chevy to a full stop, he jumped out at the first possible moment and broke out into a run, stopping at the ambulance long enough to see it was empty. 

At the entrance of the house, a young deputy stopped him and it was all Stannis could do not to rip his head off for doing his duty.  He quickly pulled out his badge and flashed it, grateful that the kid stepped aside and let him pass before he broke his jaw or something worse. 

Stannis rushed to the back of the house to where he heard the most voices and the relief that flooded through him was so acute, it made him pitch forward and grab on to the doorframe to steady himself.  There Sansa sat on the floor talking to a deputy while Sandor Clegane leaned against her, his head being bandaged by one of the ambulance medics.  Stannis could have sworn he felt breath come back into his body as their eyes met.  He suffered a quick glance at the body on the other side of the kitchen floor and realized it was Ramsay Bolton, very much dead with wounds in the chest and shoulder.  _What the hell was Bolton doing in her cottage?  What the hell were Sansa and Clegane doing at her cottage?_  

Stannis focused back on Sansa and didn’t take his eyes off of her as she spoke with the medic and then Clegane before carefully disengaging his torso from where she was supporting him to allow the medic to help her prop him up against the wall before she stood. 

Her yellow dress had blood smeared on it, as did her hands.  “Are you alright?” he heard himself bark as he started to reach for her only to have another deputy step in between them. 

“I’m sorry, Sir.  We need to photograph her first and then we will need her clothes as evidence,” the deputy insisted, trying to stare him down.  The man was close to his age and not one that looked like he could easily be intimidated into submission, although Stannis felt his hands ball up into fists and was considering options.  The deputy turned to Sansa.  “Miss Stark, if you would step over here for just a moment.  Do you have another outfit here that you could change into so that we might have your dress?” 

“Yes, I do,” Sansa replied, briefly laying a hand on his arm before she stepped away with the deputy.  That touch meant more than she could possibly know. 

“Wait!” Stannis ground out, trying to control himself and making a poor job of it.  There was something important that he had to know for Mrycella’s sake.  “Sansa, did Bolton find you and bring you here; is Myrcella in danger?”

“She went shopping,” Sansa told him.  “I coerced Sandor into bringing me here.”  He realized by the look in her eyes she was trying to apologize and he didn’t know how to give her a look back that said he so relieved that she was alive, the rest was presently immaterial.  It wasn’t immaterial, but Stannis wanted to take as much stress off of her as he could. 

Stannis watched as she stood next to the wall and allowed a few photographs to be taken, blinking as the bright lights flashed in her face.  The detective in him knew the deputy was right and he now felt guilty for every spouse and parent he ever had to make stand by when he gathered evidence from a person.   Stannis felt both helpless and yet a bit impressed with how thorough the Sheriff’s Office was. 

Another look toward Clegane showed the medic was finished bandaging his head and whatever other ministrations he was doing.  Seaworth was taking notes while talking to another deputy.  By his count, there were at least four deputies, along with the coroner, photographer, and two medics.  Too many people for such a small space.  It was a good thing they didn’t need evidence to find out what had happened. 

Once they had enough pictures of her bloody dress and hands, he approached Sansa as she stood next to the deputy.  “Is there a bath in your room?”

“Yes.”  The tone she used made him worry about shock, though Stannis knew the medics would have checked her for that.  He strongly suspected she was like a shell-shocked soldier and this would all hit her in a few hours or maybe days. 

Stannis scowled at the deputy.  “I’ll be in her room while she cleans up and changes in the bath.  The door to her room will be open.”  The deputy’s only response was to nod.  He probably knew he’d pressed his luck enough. 

He followed her out of the kitchen, through a small living room, and then into a bedroom.  As he walked, some sense of sanity prevailed and as much as he wanted to pull her to him and hold her until something in him was satisfied that this was real and she was unharmed, he knew you couldn’t just grab a person who had just been through what she had.  Even if he didn’t know the details, the scene told him enough.  Stannis also had to bite back all of his frustration at finding her there and not reel out a dozen questions and let out a dozen more chastisements at her leaving High Cliff.  

“I’ll change,” Sansa said in a monotone voice, and then gathered clothes from her closet and the dresser before disappearing into the bath, closing the door behind her.  Stannis began to pace and grind his teeth until he noticed a worried Seaworth standing outside the doorway.  He strongly suspected the worry on Seaworth’s face was aimed at him. 

“What do you know?”

Seaworth opened his notebook and used it to give him a brief rundown of what he’d learned.  “Both Clegane and Miss Stark gave statements before we got here.  Clegane brought her here and went into the house to check that it was safe.  He was hit over the head with a baseball bat . . . it’s been recovered and has his blood on it.  The bat is not Miss Stark’s.  Miss Stark was waiting for Clegane to tell her the coast was clear and she said the door opened and an arm waved her in.  She didn’t realize until she was inside that the arm wasn’t big enough to be Clegane’s arm.  Bolton was behind the door when she walked in and shut it.  Miss Stark says she started to run toward the kitchen to go out the back door when she saw Clegane bleeding on the kitchen floor.  She stopped to help him and Bolton grabbed her.  There is a litany of rants about her being his and that she needed to go with him.  Miss Stark says she saw Clegane come to and realized he was trying to get to his leg.  She saw the gun strapped to his ankle and . . .” 

Seaworth stopped for a second and took a breath.  Stannis knew he really wasn’t going to like what came next by the way Seaworth frowned and he steeled himself.  “Miss Stark kissed Bolton to try to distract him long enough for Clegane to retain his Colt .25 semi-automatic.  Clegane told her to let go and run.  He shot Bolton first in the shoulder and then in the chest.  Miss Stark attended to Clegane’s head wound and then went to the phone.  She asked the operator to send an ambulance and then dialed our station.  When you weren’t there, she asked the operator to dial the Sheriff’s Office.” 

Stannis felt the rage building the moment he heard she kissed Bolton to distract him.  It was the perfect move, and yet it made him furious . . . not with her, but with circumstances.  He heard the water go off in the bath and focused back on Seaworth, trying to tamp down his reaction to hearing Sansa had to kiss the bastard.  “Are they ruling it self-defense or are they waiting?” 

“Waiting only to get the Sheriff’s review now that they have our history of the case,” Seaworth returned.  “Why would Bolton come here?  Was he willing to wait for her here for as long as it took?”

If Bolton wanted to get to Sansa, he had few places to go and not be caught with the APB out on him.  Mormont and the Commissioner, and even Sansa, were going to call this case closed.  _But if Bolton killed his wife to get to Sansa and take her away with him, why didn’t he go looking for her in the apartment that night?  What did he do for those ten minutes?  Why have a ball bat rather than a shotgun with him now?_   He wasn’t going to get those answers at the moment.  “Clegane?”

“They’re loading him into the ambulance now, with him cussing a blue streak that he doesn’t need to go.”

Stannis was grateful to him for saving her life and ready to bash in the other side of his head for agreeing to bring her there in the first place.  “See if they are holding his Ford for any reason.  If not, look for the keys.  I can use it to go to the hospital and wait on him, then drive them both back to High Cliff.  You can go home unless they keep the Ford for some reason.” 

“I’ll check and I’ll stay as long as you need,” Seaworth offered. 

“No.  Go home to your family.  The worst of it is over and Bolton is dead.”  

Seaworth didn’t seem convinced, though he went back toward the kitchen.  Stannis began pacing again until the phone on her nightstand caught his eye.  He needed to call Robert . . . or he needed to do something useful until Sansa was back where he could see her.  Mrs. Caswell answered the phone and informed him Robert was playing golf and then having a late lunch with the Ambassador from Ibben. 

Being very precise, Stannis left a message that started by telling Robert that Myrcella and Sansa were unharmed and that Sansa and Clegane went to the cottage where they found Ramsay Bolton and that Bolton was dead. He made Mrs. Caswell repeat it back to him, though he was certain she would be very protective of how Robert received the news and ensure he heard his daughter and god-daughter were safe first. 

His second call was to DCI Mormont’s home.  Stannis gave him the rundown by repeating much of what Seaworth had said, and just as he suspected, Mormont was ready to celebrate a case closed.  “There are a lot of unanswered questions,” Stannis insisted.  “There are many things that don’t add up.” 

It wasn’t what Mormont wanted to hear, and when Sansa opened the door to the bath wearing a pair of trousers and a flower print blouse, Stannis decided he’d argue with him later and told him he would see him first thing Monday before ringing off. 

“I wear this to work in the garden,” she explained self-consciously.  “It’s all I have here.” 

Sansa obviously had no idea how truly beautiful she was in such a simple outfit with no lipstick and her wet hair brushed out.  “Sansa . . . “ Stannis tried to find a way to tell her he just wanted to hold her until he was convinced she was truly there and alright.  This wasn’t about what he wanted or needed.  “I’ve heard most of what you told the deputies.  I need to hear it from you.  Are you alright?  Did Bolton hurt you?”

“He scared me,” Sansa murmured and then took the few steps to where he stood and fell into his arms.  He didn’t realize until she stepped toward him that he’d been standing with arms along his sides slightly forward and palms toward her in a silent plea since he’d hung up the phone.  Stannis wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, feeling her whole body shaking against him.  There were no tears; just shaking. 

Seaworth came back to the doorway.  Stannis had no great desire to let go of her just to hear what he had to say.  “They’re not keeping Clegane’s Ford.  I’ll stay if there’s anything the two of you need.” 

When Sansa heard Seaworth’s voice, she pulled back.  “Hello, Sergeant.”

“Miss Stark,” Seaworth acknowledged, stepping into the room and handing Stannis a set of keys. 

He started to put his hand on her back and stopped himself.  “They took Clegane in the ambulance,” Stannis informed her.  “We can go to the hospital and see if they’re going to release him this evening or I can take you home and come back to the hospital.”

“The hospital first, please!” she asserted, giving him a measure of peace that Sansa might be shell-shocked, but she was still in there.  “I need to find Nan’s address first.  That’s the main reason we came here.”

“What?” Stannis heard himself growl and was greeted not with fear from her, but with a look of reproach.  “Why did you have to come here for Mrs. Marsh’s address?” he tried again, forcing himself to calm down.

“I usually pay her at the apartment and while I can drive to her house, I don’t have her address memorized.  High Cliff didn’t have a phone book for that area, so since I had other items I wanted, I thought it would be safe to come here.  It’s my fault, not Sandor’s.  I forgot to give you money for her yesterday, so I was going to ask Trys to take it to her before he comes by tomorrow.” 

Stannis noted the use of Clegane’s first name . . . Sansa wasn’t one to hang on to formality with someone for long.  “I paid her for the month,” he said, frustrated with himself for not giving her that detail. 

Clearing his throat, Seaworth cut in to say good-bye.  Stannis made quick work of checking with the deputy to pretend to ask his permission to leave, promising that she would be available to them for further questions if they had any.   It was the thing to say, but Stannis didn’t really mean it.  The Sheriff’s Office had better have all they need from her and leave her alone. 

Once they were on the way, Sansa moved next to him on the bench seat and leaned against his shoulder.  Stannis did something he had never done before . . . ever; he took one hand off of the steering wheel so he could drape an arm around her shoulders and drove with only one hand on the wheel. 

“He said he had been waiting for me, and that he was now free of Jeyne, we could be together,” Sansa volunteered, again her voice somewhat monotone.  Stannis didn’t want to ask her for details, but he was certainly willing to listen to whatever she was capable of telling.

“Most of what he kept going on about was how I had been a fool not to see that we were meant to be together, but that he had been a fool to think he could replace me.  Stannis, he showed no remorse for Jeyne whatsoever!”

Instead of tears, that last brought anger and he felt her stiffen.  Stannis didn’t want to question her tonight, yet he couldn’t help ask the two things he wanted to know most.  “Did he admit to killing Jeyne?  Did he mention being in your apartment?”

She was silent, thinking carefully and he hated himself for making her go over Bolton’s rant to look for what he was asking.  Stannis was just about to tell her they would talk about it later when she replied, “He didn’t mention the apartment.   He just kept talking about being glad she was dead and how he was taking me away.  He said her being dead was my fault for not . . .”

“Shhhh . . .” Stannis crooned, unable to put her through any more.  He’d heard enough for now.  “It’s over now.” 

What he didn’t want to tell her is that he wasn’t convinced it was over.  How Sansa had managed to attract the attention of not one, but two psychopaths wasn’t really beyond him.  She was beautiful, sweet, caring, and he certainly was the last man to claim he couldn’t understand a man wanting to possess her.  The fact was that their definitions of _possess_ were severely skewed from what most men’s would be.  The two psychopaths were different.  Bolton was out of control whereas Baelish is all about control.  In Stannis’ mind that made him more dangerous and harder to catch.  Be that as it may, he couldn’t help but think . . . _One psycho bastard down . . . one more to take down._  


	22. Chapter 22

King’s Landing, 1940  
Robert Baratheon

 

The bourbon bottle sat, still sealed, on the table next to his leather chair.  As soon as Cersei left, he took it out and placed it there . . . staring.  Robert didn’t know why he did this, except that the call of the bottle was louder when he couldn’t see it than when he could.  Seeing it reminded him of the ass it made him.  In the drawer or out on the table, he wanted a drink desperately. 

So many things had changed since the night Robert woke to a phone call telling him the, thankfully incorrect, news that his god-daughter had been murdered.  He felt for poor Jeyne Bolton, but could not apologize for being glad it wasn’t Sansa.  Myrcella had moved back home and Sansa would be moving in once she was back from Winterfell.  Myrcella leaving the sorority house and moving back in was meant to be a temporary arrangement.  She would be going back to university the next semester, and she would be Mrs. Trystane Martell living with her husband when she finished university.  His future good-son would be graduating this semester and was opting to work at Barasteel rather than return to Dorne.  Younger sons had those kinds of options. 

In a fit of rage over learning Myrcella intended to stay with her father until her marriage and probably in an attempt to end an engagement she hadn’t orchestrated, Cersei arrived in King’s Landing and showed up at his door.  Robert’s first instinct had been to not let her in, knowing Mrs. Caswell would be more than happy to tell her he didn’t want to see her.  The purpose of her visit had been simple.  She stood in his study with that evil sneer of hers and gave him news meant to hurt him and Myrcella. 

Robert could hear footsteps on the stairs, ones he couldn’t immediately identify.  In a matter of seconds, Stannis was in his study.  Mrs. Caswell must have called him the minute Cersei reached his study.  If anyone knew Cersei would only be here to create a shitstorm, it was Mrs. Caswell.  That Stannis showed up in the middle of a workday, possibly in the middle of a case, without knowing specifically why wasn’t lost on Robert.  Still, he wasn’t sure he was particularly glad Stannis was there.  Robert knew he needed someone to talk to, yet Stannis wasn’t one he considered confiding in or going to for advice.  Strange that.  Ned would be the first person he would have gone to and although he openly disagreed with anyone who suggested there were a lot of similarities in Ned and Stannis, Robert had to admit it was true.  Why he had been so much closer to one and not the other was lost on him. 

Stannis sat down, his back ramrod straight, in one of the leather chairs beside him.  Robert wasn’t sure if he expected him to start spouting off about what was going on.  If he did, he would be disappointed.  If Stannis stayed long enough, he’d get there . . . more than likely . . . but he couldn’t come right out with it.  “Had a letter from Sansa yesterday,” Robert started, talking about the one person they most had in common.  “She says she’ll be back in two weeks.  Does she know about the attempted break in to her apartment?  I didn’t mention it when I wrote her last week.” 

“I wrote her about it,” Stannis replied, his scowl unchanging and eyes showing no surprise at the topic of conversation.  “I had to let her know I changed the locks without her permission after Baelish told all of King’s Landing that she was in Winterfell.  He might as well have put a sign up inviting the break in.”  Robert didn’t miss the edge in Stannis voice when talking about the man he now considered his number one nemesis.  With the Bolton murder case officially closed, there was nothing Stannis could do except keep an eye on him.  Neither of them wanted Sansa to live in fear of Baelish.  The line between not fearing him and being appropriately wary of him was very thin.    

There was a bit of diversion found in conjuring up an image of Stannis sitting down and writing a letter to a woman, a young woman at that.  He’d pay good money to read one.  “Do you have any idea who tried to break in?” 

“No.  There is a part of me that is trying to match the break-in attempt with whatever the shooter did for ten minutes in the apartment.  I can’t make it add up.” 

It did not go unnoticed that Stannis still believed Petyr Baelish was the person who wielded a shotgun and meant to kill Sansa.  Somehow, Robert could not fathom Baelish that out of control.  “I wish I knew what Blackfish had on Baelish that made him back off on his column and only throw spitballs,” Robert pondered aloud.  It was really only an assumption they both shared that Sansa’s great-uncle had threatened Baelish with something from his past.  “I know you . . . you’ve checked and not found it or you’d have used it already.”    

Stannis’ scowl deepened and his eyes narrowed in disgust.  “I can’t find anything criminal . . . yet.  If Blackfish has got something on him, it’s probably something that would tarnish the image Baelish has painstakingly created for himself.”

Trying to distract himself from thinking about Cersei’s visit or the threat to Sansa, Robert went back to the image of Stannis writing letters to his god-daughter.  _Would he write Dear Sansa or just Sansa?_  They probably read like a police report:  _At 2:00pm, Detective Sergeant Seaworth wrote a report wherein he dangled a participle.  I reprimanded him severely._   “She’s coming back sooner than she originally planned.  Any idea why?”

The red that crept into Stannis’ cheeks was of great interest.  Robert couldn’t picture Stannis asking her to come back or telling her that he missed her.  He knew Stannis actually did miss her, but Robert couldn’t begin to fathom Stannis actually writing it or even saying it over the telephone.  Sansa was coming back early because she missed him.  Some men would be proud to brag that a woman like Sansa wanted to come back because of him; Stannis wasn’t that man.  He was far too private for bragging about such a thing.  Robert, on the other hand, had to admit he’d be finding ways to brag to every man he knew.  If Stannis were actually bragging to other men about anything to do with his god-daughter, Robert would have to hurt him.  It was a _do as I say, not as I do_ situation. 

Stannis made an effort to sidestep anything he thought Robert could use for sport.  “Sansa has spent time with her family and she’s decided what changes she wants to make.  She’s ready to come back.” 

“So what are you to Sansa now?” Robert snickered.  “Are you calling yourself her boyfriend?”

If Robert thought Stannis’ scowl had grown fiercer over the topic of Baelish, it was nothing to what it was at the moment.  “Do I look like a boy to you?” he growled. 

Tormenting his younger brother was proving to be a better diversion that he thought it would be, at least for the moment.  It did make him think of Myrcella; she would enjoy watching him squirm a little where Sansa was concerned.   “I can’t wait to see what your idea of courting a woman looks like!  Suppose I’ll see a lot of you in the coming months.  Just how long do you plan to court her before you propose?”

“That would depend on her,” Stannis shrugged, not at all responding as Robert anticipated.  “It does bring up something I wanted to talk to you about.  I want to rent High Cliff.”

Robert was confused.  “I thought you wanted Sansa to stay here?  When Sansa asked me to rent High Cliff to her, you were the one who wanted me to help you talk her out of it so she wouldn’t be out there by herself.  Now you want her to live there when she gets back?”

“No.  We’ll probably spend the weekends fixing it up, only she’ll believe she’s doing it for you to sell.”

It took Robert a second for what he was saying to sink in.  “And that buyer will be you if she accepts your proposal?” 

“Yes.” 

Stannis was an odd one.  He would blush and avoid talking about their courtship, but be matter of fact about planning for the possibility of their marriage. 

“Yeah . . . yeah . . . I’ll rent it to you . . . and sell it to you if the two of you marry.  So that’s your great courtship plan?  Take her to High Cliff and let her decorate every weekend?”

He didn’t get the anticipated look of embarrassment.  Instead, Robert saw concern etched on his brother’s scowling face.  “If it weren’t for Baelish, I imagine I would take her to concerts and the theatre, and I will try to do some of that.”

Robert didn’t need him to paint a picture.  Baelish was a fixture at most of King’s Landing’s cultural events.  “It would wave a red flag at him to see the two of you together at the places he means to be the center of attention.”

“I know her well enough to know that spending time with her fixing the house to her grand scheme is a great date in her book.  On top of that, I’m going to bring The Fury up from Storm’s End and keep it at the North Shore Marina.  Sansa says she’d like to learn to sail.” 

It was a source of amazement that Stannis, who Robert knew remembered every second of watching their parents go down in their yacht as it hit the rocks in rough weather, could bring himself to sail.  However, no one was more careful and more competent at it.  The only thing Robert could imagine made him do it was taking it on as a fear to be conquered.  Poor Sansa.  Stannis would teach her to sail, but she’d be wearing every floating device he could find to put on her in the bargain. 

Stannis’ eyes narrowed and he moved slightly in the chair.  “You’ve listened to me, now it’s your turn.  Why was Cersei here, Robert?  Why is the bottle out?”

When Stannis asked about renting High Cliff, Robert thought perhaps Mrs. Caswell hadn’t called him, but he could see now that she had.  He took a long look at the bottle and then at his brother.  It wasn’t that he wanted the drink right now . . . well, he did, but not as bad as he knew he was going to want it when Myrcella got back from her lunch with Cersei.  _Would she want to leave?_  

“The great bitch admitted to being the whore she is,” Robert snarled.  He didn’t want to say the words . . . _the three children that carry my name aren’t mine_.  There was not a second after Cersei told him that he thought she was lying.  While he had honestly never suspected, every instinct in him knew it was true and she had been waiting for an opportune time to tell him.  Deep down, he welcomed realizing he didn’t create Joffrey.  And Robert had already gotten used to the estrangement from Tommen even before the divorce.  He had long felt he had failed Tommen for allowing Cersei to make him such a mama’s boy.  The idea that he wasn’t Myrcella’s father was what brought out the bourbon bottle and had it sitting next to his chair again, waiting to be opened. 

They sat in silence for a moment and Robert thought Stannis was probably waiting for him to give him more of an explanation because the mere act of calling Cersei names was nothing new. 

“Did she say you didn’t father Myrcella or all three?” Stannis finally asked. 

Robert felt tears fill his eyes and he hated showing this kind of weakness in front of Stannis, especially when it appeared that Stannis had already guessed that he had been cuckolded.  “All three.” 

Stannis gave him neither sympathy, nor judgement.  “I can’t speak for you, Robert.  It’s not with any great pride that I tell you even if he was blood, I wouldn’t own a relationship to Joffrey.  As for Tommen, I hardly know him.  Myrcella, on the other hand . . . Myrcella is my niece and always will be regardless of what Cersei or any blood test claims.  I regret I haven’t been much of an uncle.  I should have been someone she could have called on when you went to Lys.  Cersei told you because she hopes Myrcella will come home to find you drunk.  If she did, Cersei might succeed in putting off the wedding for a bit as Myrcella stayed here trying to get you back on the wagon.”

He hadn’t considered that Cersei was trying to drive him to drink because he hadn’t realized she knew he’d quit drinking.  Of course she knew.  Myrcella would have told Tommen and he told his mother everything.  “They’re having lunch . . . Myrcella, Trys, and the great bitch.  She’s going to tell her then.”

Stannis took his time to think about a reply.  “I don’t see Cersei meeting Martell for the first time and admitting that with him around.  It’s possible she’ll tell Myrcella in private, but if she does, Cersei will be in for a surprise she won’t like.  This is the part I have no doubt about, Robert.  Myrcella would be hurt, but she’ll be back here hoping you still want to be her father.   That war hammer you always threatened to break out?  Well, I’ll gut you like a fish if you tell me you don’t.  She’s your daughter; it doesn’t matter how she was created.” 

 _Gut me like a fish?_   Robert couldn’t remember Stannis ever saying anything like that . . . ever.  It struck him as funny and he started to laugh, a laugh that kept coming until the tears that were once tears of pain were suddenly tears of mirth.  “You  . . . gut me like a fish!  That’s supposed to be a threat?  Damn, Stannis . . . like you could!” 

Instead of commenting, his brother got up from the chair and took the bourbon bottle off the table.  “Any chance you’d let me put pour this out and you not buy another bottle to replace it?”

“None,” Robert answered honestly. 

“Then where do you keep it?” 

“Bottom desk drawer.”  A few seconds later, Robert heard the drawer open and then close.  “Do you remember our fencing instructor . . . Syrio Forel?”

Stannis sat back down.  “I do.  Why?”

Peering at him, Robert ruefully admitted that he was glad Stannis was there.  If you needed to hear sense, middle brother was the boring one to bring it to you.  “What do I say to the great bitch and her plans?”

A smirk played on Stannis’ lips as he caught on.  “Not today.” 


	23. Chapter 23

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Stark

Sansa was berthed in a comfortable sleeping car for the two and a half-day train trip back to King’s Landing. It had been lovely to be home for a while and to spend time with Robb, learning to know the man instead of the boy afraid of not being able to follow in his father’s footsteps. Arya came home for two long weekends during her stay and they still couldn’t be more opposite as sisters, yet there was no bickering and lots of laughing. When Robb tried to convince her to move back to Winterfell permanently, Sansa had no hesitation in telling him that her home was in King’s Landing. He, of course, pointed out that she’d also told him she couldn’t live in her apartment anymore and would be moving in with Uncle Robert, which was hardly the same as saying you had a home. Sansa wasn’t ready to tell Robb her home wasn’t a place; it was a man. 

She brought two novels with her for the trip, as well as the stack of letters she had received while in Winterfell. The first two weeks she was away, Sansa wrote Stannis every day, but only mailed the letter every three days. That was about when the number of pages became so thick, the letter would barely fit in an envelope. Sansa wanted to tell him everything, and in her first letter she asked him to tell her if he found her letters too long. When Stannis’ first letter came, it was one immaculately written page, but it made no complaint about the size of the letter to which it replied. None of them complained, even when her letters became more frequent. In the six weeks she’d been gone, Sansa received eleven letters from him. Rather than read the novels she brought, she read his letters over and over again. 

Like most of her letters, his were mostly news except when they weren’t. If asked, Sansa suspected most who knew him would say that Stannis Baratheon was a man of few words unless he was interrogating a suspect. Her experience was that he would never use a few simple words when he could hint at what he meant using far more. Instead of _I miss you_ , he wrote: _We’ve moved your clothes and everyday items into the brownstone; however, I have temporarily stored your portrait at my townhouse._ Instead of writing that he would kiss her breathless when he saw her, Stannis wrote: _When you arrive, I would ask you to consider waiting until just before we get to Robert’s before you refresh your lipstick._ Instead of writing _I want you_ , he wrote: _There may come a time when I will need you to not question or be offended by my suddenly walking away from you._ If it hadn’t been written in the context of his talking about their working at High Cliff together, Sansa might never have understood he was telling her that it was likely he find himself needing to take the proverbial cold shower. 

As the train neared the High Street Station at King’s Landing, Sansa put on her hat, powdered her nose, and blotted her lipstick. Sansa watched people standing on the platform saying good-bye to those preparing to board the train after she and others made their way off. Some were talking, some were embracing, and there was the one couple whose kiss showed no regard for who was watching. Toward the back of the throng stood Stannis Baratheon in a gray silk suit, fedora hat, and a scowl she wanted to reach out and touch. Sansa made her way to the train car exit, waiting for the porter to open the door. 

In the time it took her to make her way to the exit, Stannis had made his way to the front of the platform. It was his hand, with long fingers outstretched, that was waiting to help her off the train. Without a word, she put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her toward the back of the platform to wait for her luggage. 

Still holding her hand, Sansa felt her heart beating wildly as Stannis stepped close to her and looked down into her eyes and took in a breath. “The flowers are finally back in King’s Landing.”

Smiling shyly and feeling the heat creep into her cheeks, Sansa didn’t mince words. “I missed you.” 

“I wasn’t sure,” his words were his normal graveled tone, but she could see his a hint of mirth in his eyes and knew there was a touch of teasing to hide giving her a straight answer. “Perhaps if I had received a few more letters, I would be convinced.”

Sansa wasn’t sure how it was possible for him to make her blush more and yet have her feel a sensation of excitement rush through her. “Should I surmise you didn’t miss me at all since I received fewer letters from you?”

“I’m sure you know that isn’t the case.” 

A porter arrived with her luggage and waited while Stannis went to bring his Buick around, tipping him after he loaded the cases into the trunk. Once they were both seated in the car, Sansa was uncertain about how close to sit to him on the bench seat. He made no attempt to pull her closer and put both hands on the steering wheel. 

Stannis drove in silence and she noticed they were driving out of the city instead of toward Uncle Robert’s brownstone. Once they were driving on the north shore road, Stannis pulled off and parked near the water. Engaging the parking break, he took his Fedora off and laid it on the backseat. Then, he moved to sit sideways, removed the pin holding her own hat in place, and soon placed it next to his. Sansa moved to face him, excited at what she knew was coming . . . the reason she had blotted her lipstick until it was barely there. 

His eyes searched her face, and she thought perhaps he was seeking permission. Sansa leaned toward him, hoping he understood it for what it was. A moan escaped her when he cupped her cheek with his hand, stroking it with his thumb before he touched his lips to hers. Stannis started with gentle kisses on and around her mouth that increased in intensity little by little. When she could form a coherent thought, Sansa considered he might be gauging her response. Just in case she had the right of it, she wound the arm not pinned by his body around his neck and splayed her fingers in his hair. Stannis sucked in her lower lip and she opened her mouth to him in response. He tasted of lemon and smelled of sandalwood, and as his hand left her cheek and moved to her back, Sansa was embarrassed to realize she was squirming to get closer to him. 

They were both breathless by the time he pulled away from her. Stannis sat back against the driver’s side and put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her against him. “I’m not a teenager and neither are you,” Stannis groaned into her ear, still breathing heavily. “We have to find a proper place for this.”

“We will,” she assured him, laying a hand on his chest and her head on his shoulder. “Just not today. Today, we neck like teenagers in your car until we graduate to a sofa . . . only not Uncle Robert’s sofa.”

His fingers traced small circles on her arm, covered by the cream jacket of her traveling suit. “Definitely not Robert’s sofa.” 

“Actually,” Sansa observed, twisting away from him until she was able to look at him. “I am quite fond of the Buick . . . and of necking like teenagers.” 

“Are you?” he mused, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve heard teenagers can get out of control when necking in cars.”

Sansa decided it was her turn to initiate their kiss. “Ever arrested any?” she asked, putting playful kisses along his jaw, avoiding his mouth.

“I’ve run a few off and witnessed far more than I wished to in the bargain.” Stannis moved his mouth until he claimed hers again. The kisses she’d had as a teenager did not compare. Nothing compared except perhaps his previous kisses.

Eventually, Stannis and Sansa did find that sofa . . . at High Cliff. Sansa enjoyed the routine they settled into of his taking her out to dinner or staying to have dinner with her and Uncle Robert during the week. Myrcella and Trys were seldom home for dinner except on Mrs. Caswell’s day off because everyone knew Sansa would be cooking. On those evenings, Sansa spent half a day cooking for an army and dinner was followed by a matchstick poker game. Sansa only watched the others the first time, then Stannis coached her as she learned. She invited Sandor Clegane to join them once, wanting to make sure that he was well after his injuries.

During the weekdays, she volunteered at the three charities she decided to make her primary focus. Sansa was already on the board of the King’s Landing Orphanage, and to her delight, the other two charities invited her to be on their boards. 

Weekends were spent at High Cliff. Stannis took care of coordinating the supplies they needed with Uncle Robert. These were the best times for Sansa, and even Stannis seemed to enjoy working on High Cliff. Sansa learned that Stannis had a few items of clothing that weren’t suits, ties, and dress shirts. He informed her that the turtleneck pullovers were what he wore for sailing. They sanded, scraped, painted, repaired, cleaned, and when they weren’t doing that, they were on the sofa. Just as Stannis wrote in his letter, he occasionally walked away without any explanation. Sansa usually felt evidence that it was about to happen and it excited her. It took every bit of self-control she had not to ask him to stay with her on the sofa and indulge in more than what they were doing. In one of their late-night conversations, Myrcella advised her that there were a few options that fell short of losing her virginity. At first, Sansa was embarrassed and scandalized at what Myrcella suggested. Only a few weeks later, she found herself more eager when she thought of it. A few times, she even pressed her body against Stannis’, wanting to be as close to him as possible and feeling an exquisite sensation when a specific area came in contact with him. Sansa hoped he might understand and take over. Instead, it turned out to be the quickest way to get him to leave the sofa, leaving her with a desperate aching. 

Their first fight came two months after her return when Stannis told her he was taking an overnight train to Storm’s End in order to sail his twenty-three-foot cruiser from there to the North Shore Marina. He was timing the event with DS Seaworth taking time off after the birth of his third son. Sansa knew his parent’s history and she imagined it wasn’t called Shipbreaker’s Bay for nothing. When she saw that nothing was going to dissuade him from making the journey, Sansa tried to talk him into letting her go with him. “If you want to learn to sail, I want to teach you,” Stannis replied firmly. “But navigating out of Shipbreaker’s Bay is not the place to do that. With good winds, the voyage will take about ten days.” That was a ten days of not hearing from him at all and worrying. All she could do was ask him to call before he sailed and to tell him she would be waiting for him at High Cliff. 

Despite Uncle Robert’s protests, Sansa moved into High Cliff as soon as Stannis called and said that he was starting his voyage back. Tears fell during the call; she wanted to tell him she loved him yet she was still the girl with certain proprieties and conventions ingrained into her very core . . . one being that she must wait for him to say it first. Since Stannis entrusted her with the use of his Buick while he was gone, she was able to journey into town to work for a few hours, then come back and busy herself with projects such as sewing new draperies and for one evening, sewing two newborn outfits for Stannis Seaworth. Stannis Baratheon had yet to learn of that honor. 

During the day, the distractions worked. At night, she sat out on the patio and looked out into the darkness toward the bay, worried and waiting. Myrcella and Trys came by two of those evenings and Uncle Robert sat outside with her for one, telling her stories about when her father and he were in school together. Sandor Clegane learned of the voyage and her waiting there somehow and came by, not staying too late. He taught her a card game called cribbage. Their efforts to keep her occupied were appreciated, but futile as far as stopping her from worrying. 

Although Stannis warned her that he couldn’t accurately predict how long the journey would take and that ten days was merely an estimate, the one thing Sansa counted on was his innate desire to be on or ahead of schedule. Starting on the eighth day, she didn’t leave High Cliff to go into town. It was the middle of day nine when she heard the cab pull into the oyster-shell drive. Tanned, dressed in slacks and a turtle neck pullover shirt, and sporting the growth of nine days of a beard that held some flecks of gray, Stannis dropped his seabag when he saw her running from the door towards him. He smelled of salt, musk, and a touch of the familiar sandalwood as she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her head into his shoulder. Usually, when she flung herself at him like this, there was a second or two of hesitation before he would wrap his arms around her and give in to being embraced. This time, there was no hesitation. Stannis nuzzled her hair and kissed her temple until she pulled back from him and he claimed her mouth in a gentle kiss, careful of the stubble. 

“I plan to do a better job of that when this beard comes off,” Stannis growled into her ear. It was difficult for her to describe; Stannis looked both tired and invigorated at the same time. He picked up his seabag and draped an arm across her shoulders as they walked together back into the house. Noticing the new drapes once inside, he looked at her through narrowed eyes. “I called Robert’s from the marina and Mrs. Caswell told me you were here . . . how long _have_ you been staying here?”

“Since you left Storm’s End,” Sansa answered, ready to defend her actions if he tried to claim she should have done otherwise. 

Stannis met her eyes and what she saw made her heart race . . . she saw his scowl disappear and his eyes light up. “Were you worried . . . or . . . or did you miss me?” 

When they first met, it was hard for her to discern those rare times when he was teasing her. She felt very confident she now understood from the look in his eyes when that was happening, and she saw no trace of his having asked the question out of anything other than not expecting her to do either, or at least not to any great degree. _Was he really that uncertain about how she felt?_

“Both!” Sansa insisted, making sure she didn’t appear to be teasing either. Overwhelmed by the intensity of the look Stannis continued to give her, she tried to regain her composure. “I went by the townhouse when I knew Mrs. Cressen would be there and got a shirt and some other clean clothes in case you wore everything you took with you. They’re upstairs laying out in the dressing room since I know you prefer a shower and the downstairs bath doesn’t have one. Do you want to take a nap or have something to eat after your shower?”

The scowl returned, although one of his softer ones. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more tired than hungry.” 

“Then why don’t you lay down after your shower and I’ll start dinner when you wake up.”

Stannis disappeared up the stairs, taking his seabag with him. As she watched him go, Sansa felt an ache at not following him. Her logical mind told her to go to the icebox and start planning dinner. Her heart told her to go upstairs. Her heart won. The water in the shower had just started running when she reached the top of the stairs and walked into the large bedroom. Not sure what she meant to do, Sansa turned down the bed and glanced into the dresser mirror. The wide leg trousers she wore and cotton blouse would wrinkle badly if she were to lay down next to him wearing them. Underneath she only wore a pair of satin panties and a bra, and what she brought to sleep in was rather revealing. 

The water shut off in the shower and Sansa needed to decide what to do . . . either to leave the bedroom or stay and ask him if she could lay down with him. Fully dressed, she sat on the edge of the bed waiting. It seemed like an eternity before he emerged from the small hallway to the bath wearing a pair of boxers. If she suffered one minute of doubt that she desired Stannis Baratheon, the lump in her throat at the sight of his broad shoulders and muscled chest with its dark hair that ran across the top of his chest and narrowed into a ‘v’ that disappeared into his boxers put that doubt to rest. 

Stopping as soon as he saw her, his eyes narrowed as they always did when he was trying to determine something. “What are we doing, Sansa?” His tone was unusually gentle. 

“I haven’t slept well since you’ve been gone,” Sansa explained, watching him. “I thought we could both take a nap and . . . “

“And?”

“And, I wanted you to hold me.” There . . . she said it, most of it anyway. 

Stannis was watching her just as much as she was him. “If you’ve been staying here, I assume you brought a nightgown with you?”

It was preposterous that the mention of a nightgown was the first thing to make her blush scarlet in all this. “I was afraid if I put on a nightgown you’d think I was trying to seduce you.” 

“I do have a few clean shirts left in my bag. The one you brought is still in the bath. Would that be enough?”

The thought of wearing one of his shirts sent another one of those heady rushes through her. Sansa answered him by getting off the bed and walking past him to go into the bath. Slipping off her trousers and blouse, she unfolded the light blue silk button-down shirt and put it on, buttoning all but the top button. The shirt covered her most intimate parts, but exposed her long legs. Sansa had to admit she was not unhappy with the result. 

Returning to the bedroom, Sansa found him already in the bed, two pillows behind his head and one arm folded behind his head. His eyes told her Stannis wasn’t unhappy with the result either. Joining him, Sansa slipped over until she was next to him and could lay her head on his chest, enjoying the smell of sandalwood, bath soap, and a musk that was uniquely Stannis. As his arm came around her, rubbing her back, Sansa found she needed to lay one hand on his chest and then prop her nose on it to avoid being tickled by the fine hairs on his chest. 

She was there to sleep and Sansa was certainly tired enough after nights of only fitful sleep that she should be able to doze off quickly, only it wasn't happening. The sound of his heartbeat under her ear and the gentle motion of his hand rubbing her back wasn’t soothing her to sleep; it was announcing his presence. After ten minutes, she noted that while he had stopped rubbing her back and his eyes were closed, Stannis wasn’t sleeping either. 

“My being here is keeping you from sleeping, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he admitted, not opening his eyes. 

Deflated, Sansa started to pull away from him only to have the effort stopped by his tightening his arm around her back. “I didn’t say I wanted you to go.” 

Once he’d made that clear, he relaxed his hold inviting her to make up her mind. He brought out this sort of tension in her before, more often than she cared to admit, but he made no move to kiss her. Them both feeling this way usually brought about intense kissing. She wanted him to kiss her; she wanted more than that only she wasn’t sure specifically what that more was. Sansa raised up and his eyes opened, watching her. Draping herself across his chest, Sansa lowered her mouth to his. The hand that had been rubbing her back now fisted her hair as he opened his mouth to her. His kisses were oh so satisfying, yet it made that something else she wanted . . . needed . . . more powerful. Stannis moved away from her mouth and rained kisses along her cheek, down her jaw, and on her neck until he found a spot that caused her to buck up against him, sending a wave of intense pleasure through her that emanated from where she realized she had just ground herself against him. He lathed the spot on her neck again, and again her hips moved against him with the same delicious result. 

Stannis changed their positions, with her lying on her back and him propped up on one arm, hovering over her. He nibbled on her earlobe before whispering, “Are you alright with me touching you through your clothes?” 

This was exactly what Myrcella told her about; how she and Trys had started. It didn’t seem quite so scandalous now as much as totally necessary. “Yes, Stannis . . . please.” 

Rather than go straight to touching her, he kissed her again and while their tongues were dancing together, she felt his hand on her breast with his thumb stroking her nipple. Despite her bra and his shirt, the touch was so intense, it seemed to travel from her breast back down to her core, which made her thrust upward. Stannis continued to kiss her and stroke her breast, and her response was always the same. Sansa didn’t know whether she should be embarrassed, but she couldn’t seem to help it. Moving his mouth back to the spot he’d found on her neck. She let out a moan of protest when his hand left her breast and slowly traveled down her torso until he cupped his hand over her mound. His shirt had fallen away and only her satin panties separated the extremely sensitive spot and the palm that rubbed against it, causing her to raise up to grind back in response. Sansa’s breathing became labored and moans escaped her at random intervals while he not only ground against that spot, but moved his satin covered fingers to her opening. “Gods, Stannis!” she hissed, her eyes going wide as she fisted the sheets. 

Claiming her mouth again and continuing to move his palm against her, Sansa began thrashing. It was then that she realized her panties were drenched with her own fluids. Her legs moved apart, trying to invite his fingers to enter her more deeply, but he was a man of his word. He didn’t move aside the panties to gain entrance. Still, what he was doing was sending wave upon wave of glorious of sensations through her that continued to intensify until she had to move away from his searing kiss in order to cry out with a gasp at what she knew was the final crescendo to this symphony. 

Stannis was watching her, his eyes so dark they were almost black as he gently stroked her cheek while she came down and her breathing steadied. When she could form a coherent thought, guilt washed over her. Not at what they had done, but at it all being done for her. “How do I do this for you? You have to tell me what to do!”

“Next time,” he whispered, still stroking her cheek. 

“It’s not fair!” Sansa protested, not wanting to be stingy considering how he’d just made her feel. “I’m supposed to touch you, aren’t I?” She thought to take her hand and stroke him, and then it occurred to her he may not want the same from her. “Or are you telling me you don’t want me to touch you?”

The chortling sound escaped his throat and he looked amused. “Oh I want you to touch me alright. If you want honesty, I want you to touch me . . . not the cloth covering me. And you’re not ready for that.” 

_Says him!_ Sansa moved to her side and reached across her until her hand found the opening in the front of his boxers. There were so many names for what she held in her hand; none she had ever used. She would decide later what to call _it_ ; for right now, _it_ was long, warm, and thick and she reveled in the choked sound that came from his throat as she closed her hand around it. “What do I do?” she asked throatily. Stannis laid back and covered her hand with his, moving it up and down along him. His breathing was labored and after one groan, he bit his lip to try to hold back another. “I want to hear you,” she begged and Stannis let out another groan while moving her hand faster up and down him. Sansa felt something wet and sticky ooze down along her hand and realized that something she thought might repulse her did the exact opposite. 

He began bucking forward, and much as she had, the faster she went the harder he bucked until he pulled her hand away and returned his own, crying out her name as Sansa realized he’d reached his own crescendo. 

His eyes were glazed over and she wondered if hers had looked the same. Copying his actions in a bit of a monkey see, monkey do, Sansa stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers, and she was sure when his lips twitched that he recognized the gesture as just that. Stannis sat up a bit. “We might both be more comfortable sleeping after a change of underwear. Do you want to go first?”

Sheepishly, Sansa moved off the bed and made her way to the dresser where she had unpacked the clothes she brought and took out another pair of panties. Back in the bath, she found a linen cloth and bathed herself from the sink and changed. Stannis was already off of the bed when she returned, taking her into his arms rather than passing her to go into the bath. Kissing her once more, allowing his hands to briefly roam down to her backside before he let go of her. “I’m glad you’re home,” Sansa said before she took her arms from his neck.

Stannis raised an eyebrow. “I’m not home yet, Sansa. But I look forward to the journey.” 

Sansa found it an odd thing to say until her cheeks started to burn as she realized exactly what Stannis Baratheon meant by home . . . and it was not his townhouse! 


	24. Chapter 24

King’s Landing, 1940  
Petyr Baelish

 

Petyr loathed the works of Sergei Rachmaninoff, but he would not miss his appearance in King’s Landing.  He wasn’t sure whether Sansa would be able to talk her boorish beau into escorting her or beg Robert Baratheon’s brat into accompanying her, but she would be there.  Petyr remembered her bringing a recording of that wretched _Piano Concerto No 2 in C minor, Op 18_ over to his penthouse for their weekly dinner in over a year ago.  She had looked at him as if he had dropped a puppy from his balcony when he referred to the work as tripe sentimentality.

Try as he might, Petyr had yet to rid Sansa of her romantic illusions.  It had been Catelyn’s weakness and it was Sansa’s as well.  They both truly believed they were born to marry and have children.  Petyr could understand Sansa wanting men to worship her body.  He could accept her having an occasional lover when she had urges that needed to be satisfied.  Those urges in others were what his grandfather’s fortune had been built on . . . a fact he had gone to great pains to bury before moving to King’s Landing in the twenties.  Blackfish Tully threatened to dig up that past and go public with it if he didn’t stop writing about his grand-niece, although why he meant to stop him from embarrassing a Baratheon was a mystery Petry meant to unravel.  Petyr replied that he must report the news in his column and Sansa was currently the news.  They came to an understanding of what Blackfish would and would not accept.  At the end of it, the old reprobate threatened him by saying that if anything happened to him, documents with evidence of his past would come to light.  Petyr loathed the man, but respected the thoroughness to which he carried out and even negotiated threat.   Of course, he hired private investigators to determine what Blackfish had and where he hid any evidence if, indeed, he had it.  Once that was destroyed, the old man would pay for crossing him. 

Catelyn made him want to be the man she deserved to be with, even if she didn’t seem to realize what such a man would be.  As a boy, Petyr had worshiped her beauty, style, and taste.  He grew up watching men want to fall at her feet and women hate her for make them pale in comparison.  One of his primary sources of enjoyment was watching the lengths Catelyn’s sister, Lysa, would go to in the effort to draw attention away from Catelyn and to herself.  As a boy, Petyr had little sexual curiosity . . . he had even less now.  It wasn’t the sort of worship he desired.  Perhaps if Lysa Tully hadn’t been his first experience and hadn’t disgusted him so in the process, his view of the activity might have been different.  _Possibly._   It occurred to him that he could not remember a time when he had a desire to see Catelyn in the nude.  No, he envisioned her in a sequined, strapless cerulean blue evening gown that clung to her shape with her auburn hair piled high on her head so that her long, elegant neck was exposed and allowed to showcase a necklace of blood red rubies, each surrounded by diamonds.  Petyr envisioned himself, resplendent in a black dinner jacket and bow tie leading her through a throng of admirers, men wanting to be him and women wanting to be her.  He could have made that happen for her if she had given him a little more time to establish himself.  Instead, she married a man who neither knew how to dress nor how to treat a woman, except to ruin her shape by putting babies in her and give her a manse to run. 

A part of Petyr died when Catelyn gave birth to her first child.  The idea of her body being stretched and pulled to accommodate some mewling brat repulsed him beyond measure.  Then he walked into The Crimson Room and saw her . . . Sansa Stark . . . Catelyn’s creation.  Petyr had never thought it possible that someone could not only match, but surpass Catelyn’s beauty, yet her daughter managed it effortlessly.  Sansa Stark possessed the best both Catelyn and even Ned Stark, who he begrudgingly had to admit provided the bone structure, had to offer.  Perhaps it was destined that Catelyn be sacrificed to create such an exquisite creature.  She was dressed in a mediocre evening gown of dark green that did not do her justice.  Petyr could see all the possibilities and how he could guide her into being the most elegant creature King’s Landing had ever laid eyes on.  However, the first requirement was to extricate her from the influence of Robert Baratheon.  That had been surprisingly easy.  Sansa was eager to talk to anyone who would tell her of her parents.  Robert hadn’t the stomach to talk of Ned whereas Petyr could talk about Catelyn, as she was before she married Sansa’s oaf of a father, all day. 

He found it both amusing and a challenge when she referred to him as rude when he regaled her with witticisms about the other patrons of the café Petyr took her to the first time she agreed to his lunch invitation.  This was Ned Stark’s influence, not Catelyn.  Catelyn would have mused along with him and been quite acerbic in the process.  That was one thing missing in Sansa; she did not have her mother’s wit.  Petyr had been unable to resist a few scathing remarks about Stark and realized she would never get to the point where she saw him for what he was.  Petyr decided to allow her the illusion, although he spent months testing the water from time to time only to have the same result . . . her threatening to never see him again.  It rankled him that Ned Stark stood once again between him and something he wished to possess completely. 

The first time he took her to a concert, he purposely encouraged her to wear her nondescript green evening gown and made sure everyone knew she was fresh from the North.  Petyr wanted everyone to see the _before_ version of Sansa.  If they didn’t, they wouldn’t know what he had created in order to appreciate his efforts and know it was his doing.  Sansa had an innate sense of style, but she deferred to his taste in the first year.   Petyr taught her what clothes were more becoming, what jewelry and other accessories to wear with it, as well as who should do her hair and often giving them instructions on what to do.  The next time he took her to the theatre for an opening night, she wore a midnight blue silk satin charmeuse gown, bias cut, with a deep v- neck that showed some cleavage, yet nothing vulgar. The back had a relatively modest open key-hole opening by most standards.  The color made her lighter blue eyes sparkle and her copper hair simply glorious.  Her slender shape was magnificent for such a dress.  She had been nervous about wearing Stark and Tully family jewels out for the evening, but he managed to talk her into it and selected them very carefully.  He insisted she wear no necklace, despite a rather impressive collection.  Petyr wanted to ensure no one missed her creamy white skin and firm breasts.  A pair of drop diamond earrings, while not the best of her collection, were perfect for the dress and her hair piled stylishly on top of head and with a few visible diamond clips as part of what held it in place.  Sansa wore her aquamarine and diamond Tully family ring on her right hand along with diamond bracelets on each arm.  A silver beaded clutch and matching high-heeled sandals rounded out the vision that made her the talk of King’s Landing.   Her beauty, poise, and charm captivated them all, except for those women who hated her on sight because they faded into the background when she was in the room. 

Petyr convinced her that in order to convince those in society to spend their money on her causes, she had to relate to them . . . go places where she could charm them and they would want to support her causes because they adored her and she was one of them.  It worked both in getting her to go to the places he wanted and meet those he wanted to see her, as well as in increasing her credibility to the charities she found so dear. 

They were the featured guests at parties, Petyr with his urbane wit and style and Sansa with her beauty and elegance.  Women copied her or went to outrageous lengths to try to outdo her.  One thing Sansa absolutely refused to wear was any gown that was too backless.  She would accept backless to the mid-back as was the case with several of her halter style gowns; however, she patently refused the wear something where a man might be putting his hand solely on her bare back while dancing despite his attempts to get her to reconsider.  Among the words such as ‘children,’ ‘romance,’ and ‘marriage’. . . ‘indecent’ was a word he wished to banish from her vocabulary.   

One night a week, Sansa joined him at his penthouse for a quiet dinner.  They would stay in and listen to his phonograph or he would read to her.  Sansa always brought up the subject of Catelyn and always chastised him if he made any unfavorable remark about Stark.  Petyr learned to live with the limitation, although it robbed him of the enjoyment of tearing him down to his daughter. 

Their lives were perfect several months until Willas Tyrell arrived from Highgarden.  Both the young puppies and older men of King’s Landing society knew he would ruin them if they encroached on his property.  If they didn’t know it before, they certainly knew it after he finished with Tyrell.  The first of their quiet dinners in that she missed to have dinner with Tyrell instead, Petyr forgave as experimentation.  He fully expected Sansa would soon find him a country bore and send him on his way.  Indeed, she showed no special regard for him other than her claim that he was ‘good-natured’.  When Petyr realized that other men were taking a chance since he had not acted to stop Tyrell, he had to deal with matters. 

His column that implied Tyrell was having relations with Oberyn Martell was only mildly scandalous in King’s Landing, yet to a country bumpkin like Willas Tyrell, it was bound to get a reaction.  Petyr first hoped it would lead to his father, Mace Tyrell, to disowning him.  He could hardly believe his luck when Tyrell drank himself into oblivion and went horseback riding.  At the time, Petyr was a touch disappointed it hadn’t led to his death.  That would have given him much to write about in his column.  As it was, Tyrell returning home a cripple is still whispered about and it said very clearly that Sansa Stark belonged to Petyr Baelish. 

That was until penniless Harrold Hardyng happened into King’s Landing looking for women to support him.  Lysa latched on to him and Petyr made one of the few tactical errors he had ever made.  Petyr assumed Lysa would hold him firmly within the grasp of her checkbook and keep him far, far away from Sansa.  Or at the least, she would advise him that Sansa’s money was tied up and she only had limited access.  He never imagined she would try to make sure he stayed by finding a young beauty that she would share him with.  Only Lysa could stoop so low. 

Petyr could not allow the woman he created being wasted on that golden-haired ignoramus.  However, Hardyng was singular in that nothing embarrassed him or seemed to stick to him.  Women pitied his misfortunes and ignored his faults, including Sansa.  She found him charming with his flattery and honeyed words.  That she accepted his proposal after only knowing him for two weeks astounded him, and yet he was sure it was a joke or that she only accepted because the dolt proposed with a houseful of people watching.  Petyr made his displeasure known and insisted she end the engagement.  It was then that she told him that he could not dictate who she was with or what she did.  After all he had done for her, after molding and shaping her into the most admired woman in King’s Landing, he could not believe her so naïve and ungrateful. 

Petyr should have known when Lysa told him that Sansa and Hardyng were to be married that week that it wasn’t true, yet he had believed it.  Known to take his anger out in either the written word or witty dialogue spoken into a microphone for thousands to hear, Petyr had only felt such rage once before . . . when Catelyn became pregnant.  After that, she was ruined.  The image of that lovely, graceful creature fat with child marred the image he tried to carry of her.  Sansa would want brats of her own and the idea that everyone would know she threw away what he offered her for the life Hardyng would offer and to have his brats was unthinkable. 

Fate intervened and Hardyng was out of the way, but instead of her returning to Petyr where she belonged, she went into hiding at the behest of a man that was sure to remind her of her father.  _What was in the Tully blood that made them cry out for boorish louts like Ned Stark and Stannis Baratheon?_   Petyr thought as soon as he got her away from him and back into the limelight of society, she would remember what it was like to be adored, and all thoughts of Stannis Baratheon would fall to the wayside.  He had given her the lifestyle Catelyn never had the chance to embrace at Riverrun.  While Hardyng would have insisted she still stay in the limelight so he could feed off of the disappointed women in her wake, Baratheon took her away from it.  She couldn’t possibly be satisfied away from it for long.  All he had to do was get her away from him before she got pregnant.  The one fortunate aspect in all of this was her belief in petty proprieties.  Baratheon was not going to take her virginity before they were married. 

His spies told him Baratheon took her to the theatre, but never to opening night.  Petyr wondered if it was to avoid him or because the bastard was too cheap to buy tickets for opening night.  He learned that he had reduced her to laboring on a house for his brother, already setting her up to live as a housewife even before he put a ring on her finger.  Still, Petyr was confident he could untangle this mess if only she would see him . . . if only he could make her remember. 

Petyr’s initial attempts to talk to her on the phone were thwarted by Robert Baratheon’s housekeeper.  That was easily overcome by paying one of the secretaries at The Herald to make the call and claim she was calling on behalf of Mrs. Redfort at the orphanage.  As soon as Sansa was on the phone, he took over the call.  Sansa showed a temper he had never seen from her.  She asserted that she was angry with him for his column berating Stannis Baratheon and that she would not talk to him until she had cooled down and could forgive him.  At the time, this hadn’t bothered him.  Sansa never managed to stay angry for long.  He asked that she call him when she was ready to talk sensibly.  That was four months ago and Petyr had not managed to see or, nor get her alone.  His sources told him Sandor Clegane shadowed her during the day when Baratheon was out fighting crime, although other sources said he did not do this full time.  Petyr wasn’t an idiot.  Sandor Clegane shot Ramsay Bolton and got away with it; he would do it again.  The killing of Bolton and no trial had been quite convenient, whilst also providing excellent fodder for his column. 

Then the prime opportunity fell into his lap to see her . . . Sergei Rachmaninoff to play with the Symphony Orchestra for one night at the King’s Landing Concert Hall and the musical selection was made to order.  He would be playing _Piano Concerto No 2 in C minor, Op 18_ and _Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini_.  If Sansa was purposely trying to avoid him, she would convince Baratheon this concert suited that purpose.  Under normal circumstances, she would be correct.  He would go so far as to disparage the tastes of those who did attend in his column the next day and probably would yet. 

Petyr saw her enter the Concert Hall with her hand in the crook of Stannis Baratheon’s arm.  She was absolutely stunning yet another charmeuse bias cut dress, this one in a virginal white with a low, rounded neck and silver clasps at the top of the shoulders.  The necklace she wore was not one he remembered from her collection of family jewels.  Five suspended pear-shaped emeralds framed in diamonds hung from a line composed step- and brilliant-cut diamonds around her long neck with matching emerald pear-shaped drop earrings, also surrounded by diamonds, dangling from her ears.  These must be Baratheon jewels.  Petyr’s first instinct was to be furious since Sansa never let him buy her jewels.  However, he consoled himself that, if she accepted such a gift, Baratheon would be too proud to take it back when she ended the relationship.  The emerald bracelets and her aquamarine ring were from her collection. 

Petyr watched as so many who had not seen her in months made a fuss over her while Baratheon, looking more acceptable than expected in his dinner jacket, scowled quietly in observance.  _Take in all that adoration, Sansa!  Feel what you’ve been missing!_  

Baratheon was the first to notice him watching them.  He leaned into her and spoke something in her ear, and she looked his way in response.  Sansa replied something and they made their way towards him.  It was a bold move on Baratheon’s part. 

“How are you, Petyr?” Sansa asked politely.  He took it that her reserve was out of some misbegotten loyalty to her new beau.   “I am surprised to see you here.  As I remember, you aren’t fond of Mr. Rachmaninoff’s work.” 

 _So she did tell Baratheon he wouldn’t be there!_   And yet, Baratheon did not seem at all surprised.  “It carries more weight if I can say I tried to listen to the drivel when I throw verbal daggers at those who actually like this rot in my column tomorrow.  As for me, I am quite well, but really, My Dear, you are overdoing it with the emeralds,” Petyr remarked in greeting, leaning in to kiss her cheek and noticing her slight recoil.  “Baratheon family jewels, are they?  Is that your attempt at marking territory, Baratheon?” 

Petyr enjoyed the tightening of Baratheon’s jaw.  It was obvious he wasn’t going to answer.  If Petyr could irritate him enough to do the infamous teeth grinding, it might drown out Rachmaninoff’s performance.  “You have been missed, My Dear.  Your friends feel abandoned.”

“What friends would those be?” Baratheon interrogated with a fierce scowl.  Petyr noticed the man’s free hand balling into a fist at his side and wondered if he could get him to do something as barbaric as take a punch at him.  Sansa would surely find such behavior brutish. 

“Didn’t you notice that when she walked in the door, all eyes turned to her?  Surely you saw the rush to approach her.  I can understand your misconception, as one who does not have friends yourself, but I assure you that Sansa is well loved in King’s Landing society,” Petyr informed him glibly. 

“Those are admirers and gawkers, not friends,” Baratheon returned gruffly.  

Baelish considered telling him those were the only friends to have, but it would play into his hands of making Sansa believe the Baratheons were her only true friends in King’s Landing because they let her cook, clean, and entertain them. 

“That may be true, but it cannot hurt to be admired, Baratheon.  It would be selfish to keep such beauty and grace confined to only a small number of fortunate individuals.” 

Petyr fiddled briefly with the handkerchief in his breast pocket, which cued the pageboy he had paid earlier.  “Paging Stannis Baratheon, Paging Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon!”

He could see that Baratheon suspected a setup as he motioned for the boy. “You have a call, Sir.  If you would follow me.” 

“I’ll keep Sansa company while you take your call, Baratheon.  We’ll be here when you get back and if you find you have to run out into the night to deal with the criminal element of King’s Landing, I would be honored to have her sit with me and see my reaction to this loathsome noise. I have box seats and there is always room for Sansa,” Petyr smirked, enjoying the show of Baratheon trying to decide what to do as though he really had a choice. 

Baratheon’s face barely concealed his anger.  “Sansa, it's your decision.  Would you prefer to wait for me here or come with me and we can go to our seats from there?”

The smile Sansa gave Baratheon irritated Petyr beyond measure and, until she spoke, he thought she truly did mean to follow him.  “I’ll be here with Petyr.  If you have to leave, I’ll leave with you despite Petyr’s kind offer.” 

Baratheon gave him a look he most sincerely meant to be threatening and released her arm to follow the boy.  Petyr only had a few minutes at the most.  “My Dear, I know you think this new romance is exciting, but you cannot have thought it through.”

Sansa gave him a stern look, one she seldom used.  “Petyr, this is not the way to begin if we are to repair our friendship.  I owe you a great deal and I care about you, but I am in love with Stannis.” 

So she was calling it _love_ now.  “The man is as cold as ice.  He could never appreciate you as you should be appreciated . . . as you deserve to be appreciated.  Yes, he’ll throw a very nice piece of the Baratheon jewels on you, the ones Robert lets him have, and trot you out once or twice a year the first few years.  For the most part, you’ll be locked away in his little townhouse and possibly throw a nice dinner for his sergeant and the sergeant’s family.  That will be the most you’ll see of anyone outside of the rest of the Baratheon’s.  Others will shun you because they have no interest in him.  You’ll be remembered as a woman who was once an unparalleled beauty who gave it all up to cook, clean, and raise the brats of the most boring man in King’s Landing.  I watched it happen to your mother and found it a pity.  With you, My Dear, it would be a tragedy that simply cannot be allowed to happen.  You need to come to your senses . . . the sooner the better.” 

It was obvious Sansa had been taking lessons from Baratheon for he didn’t think it was possible for her to actually produce a scowl on that remarkable face of hers until now.  “It’s my life.  My wants.  My hopes.  My dreams.  I don’t want to be your showpiece, Petyr.”

He found her response incredulous.  Desperate times brought about desperate measures.  If she would insist on being married, he could and would accommodate if he must.  “My Dear, if you must marry, then marry someone worthy of you . . . one who will appreciate you, and always see to your best interests.  I find it totally unnecessary, but if you must marry  . . . marry me.” 

She laughed.  Petyr had never offered marriage to anyone in his forty years and she laughed to his face.  “Oh Petyr!  You don’t for one minute mean that, and if you did, you would never go through with it for we both know it would be a disaster.  Please, I beg you . . . accept that I’m happy and be my friend.  I’d like it even better if you could be our friend.”

It was all Petyr could do to not give in to the white hot anger that coursed through his veins.  _How dare she laugh!  How dare she refuse him!  How dare she prefer Stannis Baratheon over him for any reason!_    But Petyr had smiled before in these circumstances, and he smiled at her to disguise his wrath.  “Of course, you are right My Dear.  We will always be friends.” 

“Good!” she smiled, actually believing he meant it. 

Baratheon returned to her side.  “The caller didn’t stay on the line,” he informed them, staring at Petyr all the while.  “Are you ready to take our seats?” 

“Yes,” Sansa replied, continuing to smile at her belief that all was miraculously as it should be.  “It was good to see you, Petyr.”

“Of course, My Dear.” 

As they walked away, Petyr saw the back of her evening gown.  The large keyhole opening that bared almost her entire back with Baratheon’s paw firmly placed against her porcelain skin.  Sansa was allowing Baratheon to touch her in a way she had never permitted him to.  Petyr was barely able to hold on to the self-control he prided himself in mustering when furious until he remembered Lysa’s words when last they spoke.  “Even if Baratheon manages to get Sansa to marry him, it won’t last.  You need only be patient.”  Petyr wasn’t sure he had that patience.  She was still young and foolish, and he could forgive her if she came to her senses, but it would have to be soon.  _Very Soon._     


	25. Chapter 25

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

They’d been a couple almost from the start of their meeting one another. It was a fact that astonished him when he allowed himself to try to analyze it. As a man who was suspect of happiness or of anything in his life that went smoothly other than his job, Stannis spent the first months at war with the idea that he could be loved. And yet, with each passing day, she convinced him that she not only loved him, but she found it somewhat easy to do so. He’d told himself he needed to give her time and if someone had told him almost five months would be enough time, he would have thought them an imbecile. Yet, it was enough time . . . more than enough time. It was time for him to propose. It was another astonishing fact that he knew Sansa would say yes in spite of a fact that shamed him . . . that he had yet to tell her not only that he loves her, but how very much he loves her. Of course, she knew it. She had to know it. It still did not excuse Sansa not hearing him say the words. 

He also knew that Sansa would not have allowed him to touch her or touch him the way they had been for the past few months unless she saw a future where they would be married. At first, he hadn’t known what to think when he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed after he came out of that shower when he returned from Storm’s End. He took her at face value when she said she needed to sleep and wanted him to hold her. Stannis remembered he had been tired and thought at the time he would be able to sleep holding her, until he asked her if she meant to change into a nightgown and she shyly said she was afraid he’d think she was trying to seduce him. He remembered the sleepwear he’d glimpsed in her apartment and believed one of his shirts would still be comfortable for her and yet allow him some measure of control. How wrong he was! Still, he managed until she kissed him and he felt a hunger in that kiss that matched his own. The moment Sansa let him touch her, even though through clothes, Stannis knew she was as committed as he was. He should have asked her to marry him that evening, but it seemed too soon and he didn’t want anyone to think he hadn’t given her time to change her mind. Still, he had tried to convey that he knew the limits until they were married and that it was a matter of time, not lack of desire for her. It hadn’t taken long before she urged him to touch her without the barrier of clothes, just as she touched him. Their _naps_ as they called them were both glorious and excruciating at the same time. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to bury himself inside her and commit that final act that made them belong to each other completely. 

Stannis made it a habit to face everything he feared head on. He stood up to Robert many times as a young boy when afraid of Robert’s temper and size. He learned to sail to conquer the fear left by his parent’s death, and grew to enjoy it so much he bought his own cruiser. And while not something he set in motion on purpose, he had stared down someone holding a gun on him when he had no gun of his own, managing to talk them down. By comparison, standing in front of the woman he adored, taking her in his arms, and telling her he loves her or getting down on one knee and asking him to marry him should seem like child’s play. It was anything but. Every time he ran over either scenario in his mind, he imagined he looked or sounded like an idiot. Not because of the words themselves, but because he couldn’t see himself doing them justice. Deep in the back of his mind was a conviction that if didn’t get these two things right, Sansa would realize she could do better and disappear. Despite his reminding himself that she read between the lines on so many things he’d told her and his lack of romantic acumen hadn’t drove her away to date, Stannis was terrified of making a mummer’s face out of something she would want to remember for rest of her life. Admittedly, he didn’t want to remember it for the rest of his life as a complete disaster. 

There was also the fact that Stannis felt she deserved something unique for at least the proposal part. His getting down one knee might be traditional, but it lacked originality. However, every scenario he came up with seemed like it was trapping her into an answer, as Hardyng did. He considered throwing a ring box into the pot of the now weekly poker game if he could maneuver it so everyone folded and left them in the game. Once again, she would have an audience expecting her to say yes and, upon reflection, it was a bit crass. Stannis thought, now that they were at the point of making up things to keep working at High Cliff, he could hang her portrait over the fireplace and set the ring box on the mantle. That one made him feel he was saying, if you marry me, I’ll buy you this house. That wasn’t entirely inaccurate, although he knew he loved her so much that if she turned him down, he’d still find a way to give her High Cliff. Stannis even imagined slipping the ring on her finger during one of their _naps_ and have her wake up to discover it, but that arrogantly assumed she would say yes and accept the ring. Even if he had every reason to believe she would say yes, he wasn’t going to be that bold.

It wasn’t lost on him that, in each of these scenarios, Stannis said nothing and the ring box spoke for him. Even if one of those scenarios were acceptable, he had to do better. 

“Remind me back at the station that I’ve got a box from Marya for Sansa,” Seaworth broke into his thoughts. They had been sitting outside of a pub for an hour waiting for the suspect in their recent case to leave in order to follow him. “Sansa made Stanny a baby quilt and Marya wanted to give her some of the tomatoes she canned last month as a thank you.” 

“Do I have any rights at all as a god-father in insisting my god-son’s name not be reduced to Stanny?” Stannis implored, grateful Robert had never thought of the name when they were children and would be eternally appreciative if he never heard it now that they were grown men. 

Seaworth rolled his eyes. “You would need to take that up with Marya, and I wish you luck.” 

Proposals were something men didn’t talk to other men about, at least he didn’t think they did and while he was curious about how Seaworth managed it, he would never ask. Stannis knew Robert got down on one knee to propose to Lyanna and she refused. He asked Tywin Lannister for Cersei as part of a bid for campaign support and Tywin accepted. No great surprise the marriage was a disaster. He had no idea how his father proposed to his mother, and doubted Robert or Renly did either. 

“You didn’t tell me how the concert went last night. Was Baelish there like you thought he’d be?” Seaworth asked, evidently tired of the quiet. They usually ran theories or reviewed evidence at times like this, but they only had one theory, the husband did it, and no evidence.

Seaworth knew he had real problems accepting that Ramsay Bolton killed his wife, and even Seaworth agreed that, if he did, his actions that night made no sense. “Baelish paid a page-boy to call me the phone so he could talk to Sansa,” Stannis informed him. 

“You let him?” 

Stannis’ jaw tightened. He hated that he had little choice in the matter. “Baelish wouldn’t pull something in a crowded lobby at a concert hall where he’s well known.” 

It was all he could do after the concert to not interrogate Sansa like he would a witness. All she told him was that Baelish hadn’t changed, but said they could be friends. If Stannis wasn’t still concerned that Baelish had been the shooter that night, he might accept the possibility that Baelish would merely find another young girl to take Sansa’s place and move on. It wasn’t a chance he was taking, especially now that Baelish would now have no doubt about their being a couple. Any time he tried to warn Sansa about Baelish, she would laugh and say that there was nothing he could write that she feared. 

Wealth had its privileges and Stannis had an abundance of it from having lived a somewhat frugal life given his means and from having talked Renly through a few lucrative deals that had paid off in Barasteel dividends. Currently, Stannis was using a meager portion of his wealth to have Sandor Clegane keep tabs on Baelish. He’d hired him to watch Baelish full time when he left for Storm’s End to bring The Fury to Blackwater Bay and now, he paid him to watch Baelish during the day when Sansa was likely to be out or alone. He’d been impressed when Clegane said he came out to High Cliff to check and see if there had been any signs of Baelish or anyone else watching her during a time when he knew Baelish wouldn’t be able to get away unnoticed. Stannis meant to keep Clegane on the payroll watching Baelish until they were married, but in order to get married, he had to figure out how to propose. 

“I think you ought to know that Sansa told Marya it was going to break her heart to watch your brother sell the cottage after all the two of you had done to it.” There were times when Stannis thought it was possible that Seaworth could read his mind. It was often what made them able to work together successfully. 

Stannis dreaded the answer to the question he was about to ask because he already knew the answer. “Does Marya know I plan to buy High Cliff?” He’d never said anything to Seaworth other than that he might buy High Cliff, and he had done that before he thought about the possibility of Sansa and Marya Seaworth meeting. Seaworth was a gifted detective, and he knew how to put two and two together.

“If you’re asking me whether I told her, I did not,” Seaworth asserted. “If you’re asking whether she knows, yes she does. I neither confirmed, nor denied when she said there was no way you were letting her do all that work out there, much less working yourself, if you planned to let it get sold out from under you. And she knows you don’t plan to live out there by yourself.” 

He had learned a long time ago that Marya Seaworth is a wise woman. “I am no expert on women because there is no such thing,” Seaworth continued, “But I wouldn’t be surprised if Sansa hasn’t figured that out as well and said what she said to Marya to get another woman’s confirmation.” 

Actually, Stannis knew Sansa strongly suspected because he noticed she stopped making selections for High Cliff that would have been considered safe for anyone’s tastes and selecting things after they discussed what they personally liked and came to an agreement. She had a keen mind and the only place where someone used to be able to dupe her was through her desire to believe everyone was as good at heart as she. Sadly, she had lost some of that innocence, but she could still fall prey to someone like Baelish, who was an expert at manipulation. 

“Speaking of Marya and Sansa, and of Stanny . . . when you step up to DCI next week, some are going to think I’ve got an unfair advantage with the boss, at least as far as making DI.”

There was no denying Seaworth did have an advantage . . . he was a better sergeant than all the others, and he was a better detective than most of the detective inspectors. It was hardly an unfair advantage. “Are you telling me you want a transfer?”

“The North Shore Sheriff’s Office has a detective investigator position open. Duskerdale has a few houses we can afford and I think I’d like to raise the boys outside of the city.” 

It was a smart move, and one that would make them not exactly neighbors, but with the way Sansa and Marya had been getting along, it was sure to feel like it. As Robert did, Stannis took the responsibility of god-father seriously, so being on the North Shore would afford him a better opportunity to keep an eye on young Stannis. “Is it a certainty or a possibility?”

“A possibility. I filled out the paperwork, but wanted to talk to you before I sent it in and interviewed.” 

Stannis was certain he would get the position, and while he wouldn’t say so to Seaworth and Seaworth wouldn’t ask, Stannis would make some calls on his behalf and ensure his personnel file was too impressive for them to dismiss.

Seaworth was still in a chatty mood. “Mormont has a brother that breeds Bear Island dogs. They look like white wolves and they’re good family dogs. DI Dondarrion bought one about two years ago, a bitch, and . . . well, the dog tangled with what he thinks was a retriever and dropped a litter. He’s given all the puppies away except for one. Marya has no problems with dogs; she just has a problem with a large dog in our row house. I’ve asked Dondarrion to hold on to one for us in case I get the job and we can move. I think the boys should have a dog.” 

Stannis started to add that they were good protection when he realized how adept at providing a warning a dog could be. He had seen Sansa make a fuss over a puppy when they were taking a walk along the bay and met someone walking their dog, so he knew she liked dogs. It was then that a plan began to form. “Mormont’s brother . . . is he local?”

“I think he lives on the north side of the bay too . . . near Rosby.” Seaworth nodded toward the windshield and started the Chevy. Their suspect had left the pub and was signaling for a cab. Once inside the cab, Seaworth waited a few seconds and pulled out to tail the suspect. If they made the arrest today, this might be the last time they work together on a case. 

It was late when Stannis returned to his townhouse alone. That week’s poker game was already in session when he went to Robert’s earlier. Sansa enjoyed poker night and he was aware it wasn’t because she was all that fond of the game as much as having what she thought of as a family night. Robert still believed himself a great poker player and reveled in the games despite the lack of money on the table. The only player at the table who wasn’t cut-throat was Sansa, and Stannis found himself throwing the occasional big pot to her to keep her in the game. However, Sansa would eventually bet a big pot and lose, and he deduced she was just as happy watching the remaining four slug it out for winning that week’s bragging rights. The poker player to beat was Myrcella. She had the largest number of wins, followed by himself, then Robert, and then Martell. 

Sitting in his study that night, he took out a pad of paper and began taking notes:

  * Buy ring – estimated size 5.
  * Procure puppy – try for Bear Island as dire wolf old Stark family sigil. Try for other breed that has a wolf look if no success with Mormont.
  * Obtain literature on care for puppy, including how to house train – can you buy already house trained?
  * Build or get materials to build dog house – should have outdoor place to stay when Sansa not at home.
  * Obtain two dog beds – inside house and inside dog house.
  * Buy collars – thin and thicker for actual use.
  * Arrange for day of sailing with dinner at the clubhouse.
  * Make appointments for blood tests – premature. Do anyway. 
  * Enlist Myrcella’s aid – have her bring puppy. Patio?
  * Prepare proposal speech – no procrastinating!



If Stannis were a man to look for signs, he would have thought he’d found a rather significant one in the way everything easily came together. Alysane Mormont eagerly assisted in brokering a deal with her uncle for a puppy that had already been house broken, although warning that the puppy would need to learn where he was expected to go at its new home. She even volunteered to keep the puppy until Stannis was ready to present him to Sansa. 

Robert offered him their mother’s engagement ring . . . a ring that the oldest son gave to his bride for the last six Baratheon generations. It wasn’t lost on anyway when Robert and Cersei married that he hadn’t presented her with the ring, including Cersei. To make it up to Sansa that he wasn’t purchasing her ring, he would both buy her a car and engage an architect in drafting plans for the additions she wanted to make to High Cliff. If she wanted a large wedding with all the trimmings, they could be months away from a wedding and the additions could possibly be done in time. 

Taking care of all the logistics, it was time for Stannis to craft his proposal. Again, sitting in his study with paper and a pen, he went through several drafts, filling the waste bin with rejected versions. Soft words were not easy for him, despite the depth of feeling he had for her. Sansa deserved the best and he would try at least do the best he could. Looking up at her portrait for inspiration, he wrote until he finally settled on:

> I should have told you long before this that I realize what an extraordinary woman you are. You are the kindest and most loving person I have ever met. When you combine that with being the most beautiful woman I could imagine laying eyes on, that you could care for me is something I find miraculous. You’ve taught me what it means to be happy, and taught me not to be terrified of being happy. I should have told you long before this how very much I love you. All I can tell you now is that I will love you with every breath I have for the rest of my life. You deserve better and you can do better, but if you’ll have me, I’m asking you to marry me Sansa Stark. 

His first week as detective chief inspector had been fairly low key, save the preening of some for attention. There had been no homicides in their precinct, and very little else requiring the efforts of detectives. He’d been tempted to make immediate changes, but resisted it as he didn’t want to insult Jeor Mormont’s tenure as DCI. Stannis would make them, but gradually. He would, however, find a way to get Meryn Trant out of this precinct before the month was out. 

It had been easy to talk Sansa into a day of sailing by making it sound like it was what he wanted to do to celebrate his first week after his promotion. The only difficulty lie in suggesting they eat at the clubhouse to give Myrcella and Martell time to bring No Name, as the puppy was now called, to High Cliff and set up in a large box in the middle of the patio with holes for air and light, chew toys, and a the pillow from his dog bed. Sansa had wanted to cook a celebratory meal just as she had cooked one the weekend before to celebrate the start of his new job. 

Ultimately, Stannis was able to get his way by claiming he wanted her not to work in the kitchen preparing a mean, but to spend time with him. Even the weather cooperated by being not too hot with just enough wind. They’d learned the first time he took her out sailing that she needed cover her arms and legs, and reapply sunburn cream to her face and hands hourly. She purchased several new sets of trousers and blouses for sailing with him, such as the tan trousers and printed blouse she currently wore. On their second outing in The Fury, he’d been amused when she informed him that she wouldn’t be wearing white in case she fell overboard. Count on Sansa to add her outfit becoming see through when wet to her list of concerns if she fell overboard. That said, Sansa still wasn’t pleased about his requirement that she wear a lifejacket at all times while he did not. Today, she gave him little argument. 

Dinner at the clubhouse was another matter. Stannis could barely make conversation for watching the clock on the way behind her head. He told Myrcella they wouldn’t be back at High Cliff until six thirty. For the entire day up until they sat down for dinner, Stannis had prided himself on a lack of nerves and a sense of purpose. Then it all changed. He still wouldn’t call it nerves as much as being anxious. The forty minutes until they got into the car to make their way back to High Cliff seemed more like forty years. He tried to make small-talk in the car about gifts for Robert’s upcoming nameday. Stannis counted on her getting so excited with ideas, that she would carry the conversation and he would only have to answer or nod. It worked. 

Pulling into the driveway, Stannis was relieved there was no other car there. He’d be even more relieved when he was able to view the back patio and find a large box there. His mouth was dry when he opened the car door for her and gave her his hand to assist her in getting out of the Buick. “I know you want to go in and run upstairs to shower and change, but I’m asking you to come with me first . . . alright?”

Sansa furrowed her brow in curiosity and nodded her acceptance. Keeping hold of her hand, he led her into the kitchen and out onto the patio. Stannis saw that Myrcella pushed two of the wrought iron chairs with armrests together and sat the box on the combined seats. The box moved slightly and Stannis realized it was a smart move on Myrcella’s part. The arms kept the box from falling as the puppy moved around Sansa wouldn’t have been able to see into the box right away if it was on the table as he had instructed. 

The moving box made Sansa take a step back and look up at him. “Is that for me?”

“It is,” Stannis heard himself practically croak like a frog. 

“But, this celebration is about _your_ promotion!” she protested, eyeing the box cautiously. “You should be the one getting the gift.”

Before Stannis could answer, a whine came from the interior of the box and Sansa began to realize what her gift might be. “Go ahead,” he encouraged, letting go of her hand. 

Sansa shrieked as she took the lid filled with holes off of the box and viewed the contents. Stannis watched, trying to remember the first line of the speech he had spent all week memorizing, while Sansa lifted the white fur ball currently known as No Name out of the box and held it to her chest. “Oh Stannis! He’s adorable!”

He was practically holding his breath and she wasn’t looking at the collar. Instead she was petting the puppy with one hand as she cradled the puppy against her with the other hand. _What was that first line?_ “Does he have a name?” she asked, nuzzling the top of the puppy’s head.

“Right now, it’s No Name.” he responded woodenly. “I thought you’d want to name him.” _I should have told you long before this . . . yes that’s how it started._

His ability to recall anything was gone the moment Sansa lifted the puppy up to take a better look at him. “Oh no, you need a name. What shall we call . . . “ Her eyes went wide and he knew she saw it. Without any warning, those wide, blue eyes began to water and she looked over at him. “Yes!”

It was his cue to start the speech and Stannis felt a huge lump in his throat. All he could think of was how breathtaking she looked holding that puppy, but he so didn’t want her to cry. _Was it good or bad that she was tearing up?_ He knew he needed to say something and yet, everything he planned was gone. Stannis had never lost something he had memorized like this . . . ever. _Just say what you’re thinking!_

“I love you, Sansa!” he blurted out, standing on the other side of the wrought-iron table from her. “Of course, you may keep the puppy regardless of whether you decide to keep me.” 

Despite the watery eyes and one or two tears escaping down her cheeks, Sansa began to laugh. Then it dawned on him. “Did you say Yes?” 

“Yes!” 

“You will marry me?”

“Yes!” 

Frozen where he stood, Stannis tried to take it all in . . . _she said yes!_ He told himself she would. She’d given every indication that she would. Yet, he found himself totally astounded that . . . _she said yes!_

He watched as Sansa nuzzled the puppy’s face, kissed it, and set it back into the box, moving things around to make sure he was comfortably settled. She then walked around the chairs and over to where he stood, wrapping her arms around him, and looking up at him with those exquisite blue eyes. “First, you kiss me,” she teased in a husky voice. “Then you help me get the ring off of our puppy’s collar and put it on my finger.” At least his arms moved around her without his brain needing to instruct him. “And then after that, we name our puppy.” 

“I had a speech prepare,” Stannis muttered hoarsely, still absorbing the idea that they were now engaged. 

Sansa leaned a little closer, “I’m sure you do, My Love. And you can tell it to me later this evening or let me read it because I'm quite sure you have it written down somewhere.” 

Utterly flabbergasted, Stannis lowered his lips to hers. _She actually said Yes!_


	26. Chapter 26

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Stark

 

After reading Stannis’ prepared proposal and having to wash smeared mascara off of her face and reapply makeup, Stannis didn’t ask for it back when she put it in her purse.  She’d stopped keeping a diary, but she would think of some place to store it where she could take it out and read it . . . often. 

Joining him on the sofa in the family room, Stannis asked her if she would like a wedding at Winterfell or in King’s Landing.  Weddings took time to plan and someone was always put out by not being invited or not being asked to do one thing or another.  She wanted to be married to him as soon as possible, yet when she told him so, Sansa found it difficult to convince Stannis that she was serious.  She was very much in favor of being married in a judge’s office with Robert and Myrcella as witnesses and then come back to High Cliff for their wedding night.  “I assume Robert won’t mind if we stay at High Cliff for a while?” she asked, wrapped in his arms as they watched Winter run around the room inspecting and sniffing everything. 

Right on cue, Stannis scoffed.  “How long are you going to pretend you don’t know I’m buying High Cliff?”

It was still a relief to hear it since it would tear her heart out to give it up. “I didn’t know; I only hoped.”  Sansa twisted around so she could kiss him again.  It never ceased to amaze her how much she loved merely kissing Stannis Baratheon.  It was a combination of the way he smelled, the way he tasted, the way he would try to be gentle in the beginning and then lose himself and take her along with him, and several other factors she was too lost in the kiss to be able to think through properly.   

Instead of returning to the crook of his arm and leaning her back against his chest, Sansa moved into his lap and kept her arms around Stannis’ neck.  “I know you think I want a big wedding with the dress and attendants, and I won’t lie to you and say I haven’t dreamed of it.  What I don’t want is a circus.  Circumstances have made it so that reporters would send their photographers up the trees to try to glimpse into the wedding and remark as much about who wasn’t there as who was.”  Sansa didn’t want that and she knew he didn’t either.  It could also be considered in bad taste to celebrate a marriage that might not have happened were it not for the murder of one of her oldest friends.  She tried not to think about that as much as possible. 

Stannis’ long fingers made lazy circles on her hip while he considered her argument.  “You have a point.  It doesn’t mean we need to rush to a judge.”

There was no way Stannis wanted a big wedding and to be the center of attention, so she still assumed he was worried about giving her what she wanted although no argument had yet to convince him.  It was time for a more succinct argument.  “My Love, you are beginning to make me think I have made a grave error in the _naps_ we’ve taken.  I didn’t think they would be enough for you since they fell short of . . . “ Sansa hadn’t thought through how to say this, “. . . short of our being together completely.  It isn’t going to happen until we’re married, yet if I thought you were delaying the marriage because you had no interest . . . “

“Stop!” he growled into her ear.  “You’re being ridiculous now.”  Stannis nipped at her ear and nuzzled her hair.  She loved the way he always took a deep breath when he did that, as though wanting to take in the scent of her. 

“So you do have an interest?” she teased breathlessly, moving to make more of her neck available as kissed his way across her jaw and onto her neck. 

As soon as Stannis elicited a moan from her and a little bit of squirming, he stopped and sat back, showing her an entirely different kind of teasing.  “Sansa, I can’t take you on a honeymoon for at least four months, and then I could only be gone for a week at the most.  I also thought to add that wing on to the house that you wanted with the new master suite before we are married.” 

Sansa had to steady her breathing a little before she could answer him properly.  Also, she was trying to wait to react to the news that he planned to add on to the house.  “Are those two things your only objection to our not waiting . . . seriously?”

“If you’re thinking I am hesitating for any reason other than wanting to give you something memorable, you would be mistaken,” Stannis asserted, a touch of red coloring his cheeks. 

Sansa had to bite her lip to keep from giggling before she attempted to sound serious.  “I am quite sure we will share something very memorable that evening.” 

Raising an eyebrow at her, she could tell Stannis was making an effort not to smirk.  “You’re serious, Sansa?  As soon as possible?”

“I am very serious.”  Sansa punctuated her assertion with another kiss that began to get a little heated until they both pulled apart when Winter whimpered, obviously more curious about what human Mommy and Daddy were doing rather than his new surroundings.  

“Do you know when he was last fed?” Sansa asked with concern.  “Should we feed him now?  Do we have anything to feed him?”  Then she realized this was Stannis Baratheon she was talking to.  “In the kitchen or mud room?” 

“Mud room,” he replied, letting go of her so they could both get up.  “He probably is hungry.  We’re supposed to feed him three times a day for now.  I’m moving my clothes and essentials in here tomorrow and I’ll be here until we both are living here.”

As she scooped out the dog food according to the instructions she recognized as written by Alysane Mormont, Sansa was tempted to ask Stannis if he was that confident in her answer that he’d already made plans to move in.  Sadly, she realized if he had been totally confident, he would already have his clothes here because he was that efficient. 

“We are going to have a problem after we are married.  I can ride into town with you each morning, although I’m not sure what I should do with the first few hours of the morning as there is no place for me go to until after nine o’clock.”  Sansa tried to consider how it could work with the one car.  “I can take cabs around town as I do now, but we would both be very late getting back here for his second feeding if I wait for you.  Cab rides are so expensive to take this far.” 

Stannis stood in the doorway; she could feel him watching her.  “We’ll buy you a car this week.  I know you drive and if you decide you don’t like driving it downtown, I’m sure Robert will let you park at his place and you can get a cab from there.” 

Sansa smiled up at him as she stooped to set the dog food onto the mud room floor and get the other bowl to fill with water.  “A ring, puppy, house, house addition, and car all in one week . . . not to mention marriage if we can make it happen?   Robert will accuse you of spoiling me rotten.” 

“It’s only practical,” he insisted.  She noted his deepening scowl as she passed him in the doorway to go for water and wasn’t sure if he didn’t like be accused of spoiling her or if he felt she was objecting to the car.

“I agree and I probably would have been the one insisting we buy a second car when the cottage and apartment are sold,” Sansa told him when she brought the filled water bowl back to the mud room, petting Winter before she stood again.  "We are going to have to figure out which furniture we want to keep, what to give away or sell.  All I’m asking is that my income is part of what we’re doing.”  Sansa knew Stannis would try to set her funds aside and tell her they were hers for clothes and jewelry, then set up accounts at her favorite shops and pay them with his funds so that she didn’t spend anything.  She had no idea how much money Stannis truly had, but Myrcella said he didn’t spend a third of his income from Barasteel in a year and donated most of his income from the police force, which her three charities had benefited from lately.  Sansa suspected he had quite a bit saved should Barasteel see misfortune and she meant to ensure she did not change his habits too drastically. 

“Are you buying the furniture with High Cliff?” Sansa asked as an afterthought, joining him in the doorway to watch Winter lapping at his water and ensure he was eating the food. 

“Only because Robert doesn’t want to deal with it.  I’d like to take a few weeks to get settled after we’re married to decide about the furniture.  We can draw up a plan, do our best to empty them and then sell the townhouse, apartment, and the cottage.  If you’ve no objection, we can offer Myrcella and Martell furniture for their apartment.  I heard from Robert that Martell is moving out of his fraternity house into an apartment next month.”  Stannis draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.  “I’d like to find something we can give to the Seaworths for a house warming present, but he’d probably object.”

Sansa loved the generous side of Stannis.  “Being godfather gives you certain privileges.  As long as it’s slanted toward the boys, it can be done.  They could probably use the twin beds now and we’re several years away from needing to put more than one child in a bedroom, if ever.” 

She felt Stannis stiffen and realized they’d never talked about children.  Her heart seized within her chest.  _Did he not want children?_   Sansa couldn’t bring herself to ask the question and realized her body went as stiff as his in response. 

“Settle down,” Stannis soothed, relaxing against her.  “I’m not sure how good of a father I’ll be, but you will be an exceptional mother who will undoubtedly make up for my failures.” 

Sansa imagined he would be much like her father, and that did mean there would be times when the children would wonder what he thought of them or whether he truly loved them.  Then there would be other times when they were in no doubt although it wouldn’t be anything overt that gave them that indication.  It would be a ruffling of his son’s hair or not making a daughter leave when she crawled into his lap and asked him to read to her.  Sansa had no idea if Stannis knew how to throw a baseball or kick a football, or if he did whether he would do those things with a son.  She had a vague memory of Robb and her father playing catch.  Stannis would want to teach them to sail and they would probably fight over how old the first child would be before they took him or her out for their first sail.  At least she knew from personal experience that they would be wearing life jackets and watched like a hawk.

“So when do you think we can start making these babies?” Sansa inquired sheepishly. 

Stannis didn’t skip a beat in providing an answer.  “If we have the blood tests day after tomorrow, we can be married at the end of the week.  If Judge Selmy isn’t available, I’ll see if I can make an appointment at the Registrar’s Office if you are absolutely certain you want to go this route this soon.” 

Sansa grinned up at him.  “Absolutely, Mr. Baratheon.  We have babies to make!”

To her utter delight, Stannis pinned her up against the doorframe and kissed her breathless while also putting their bodies in very close contact.  “You will stop this talk of babies until our wedding night,” Stannis groaned in her ear, letting her know exactly why as he ground against her. 

Winter began to whine and tried to bark.  “He’d better get used to sharing you,” Stannis said gruffly, not yet letting her go, “or he will strictly be an outdoor dog.” 

They planned their week, including the days they needed to meet for lunch, in order to take care of the various things that needed to be accomplished.  The first day, they went for the blood tests where he regaled her with a hilarious story about all six feet six inches of Robert Baratheon fainting in the doctor’s office when they drew blood for the blood tests before getting his marriage license.  Stannis claimed, that as far as he knew, Robert hadn’t fainted for a blood test before or since. 

Myrcella met her in the afternoon to pick out a new suit and see if it would be possible to get it tailored in time.   Sansa hadn’t been to her dressmaker since everyone thought she was Ramsay Bolton’s victim and not his wife.  Madame Bouvier was pleased to see her and assured her she could get the wool crepe in a rich cream with embroidered pearls she finally picked out altered and ready for her in two days.  Sansa already had a dark blue blouse that was close to the color of Stannis’ eyes that she wanted to wear with it. 

Madame Bouvier must have called Petyr to alert him that Sansa was in her shop while she was trying on the first outfit.  He walked into the shop as she was paying the half-down she always did when buying at Madame Bouvier’s.  Petyr wore a dark suit and she noticed his temples were a little grayer; he looked older. 

“How are you, My Dear?” he asked as if he had seen her yesterday.  Then he turned to Myrcella.  “Miss Baratheon . . . how nice to see you again.”  The tone he used said he was anything but happy to see her with Sansa. 

Until the Rachmaninoff concert, Sansa hadn’t believed Stannis’ caution regarding Petyr was warranted.  After his attending a concert only to see her and his bizarre proposal, Sansa imposed her own decision to try to keep her contact with him at a minimum.  At first, she thought she might try to appease his vanity with the occasional lunch, but she could never bring herself to call him to arrange it.  There was something about him now that made her uncomfortable and Sansa had no idea if it has existed all along or was new. 

“I am well, Petyr,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant.  “And you?”

“Fine, My Dear, although I have missed you.  I had hoped that we could go for tea after you are finished here.  I’m sure Miss Baratheon has a full afternoon with plans of her own and would allow you an afternoon with a close friend.”  Sansa could not believe the gall of the man. 

“Actually,” Myrcella spoke up.  “I have been waiting for Sansa to find an afternoon to help me shop for my trousseau, Mr. Baelish.  We have planned this for weeks as Sansa is quite busy with her charity work.  I’m afraid if you are asking me to part with her, I must object.”  

Petyr knew it was a lie.  “It looks like Sansa is the one doing the buying at the moment.  Where are your purchases, Miss Baratheon?” 

Myrcella gave Madame Bouvier an apologetic look, but she was not about to be undone.  “My dressmaker is on Fifty-Third.  We were headed there next.”

Petyr literally sneered at Myrcella and then turned back to Sansa.  “Madame Bouvier tells me you ordered a cream suit that you need to be done in quite a hurry.  My Dear, you can’t possibly wear cream to another woman’s wedding.  You’ll show up the bride.”

“It isn’t for Myrcella’s wedding,” Sansa said firmly, not bothering to hide her growing annoyance.  “You must excuse us, Petyr.  As Myrcella indicated, we have a great deal to do today.”

Petyr walked out with them, offering to hail a cab and talked as though he planned to come with them until Sandor Clegane got out of his Ford parked at the curb.  “Miss Stark, Miss Baratheon . . . where would you like to go next?” he rasped, opening the back door and standing as though he were a chauffeur.    

Myrcella took Sansa’s arm and pulled her toward the Ford.  “It was good to see you, Mr. Baelish.  I hope you have a good day.”  

Shocked, Sansa was barely able to mutter a good-bye before she followed Myrcella into the backseat. 

“Where to, ladies?” Sandor asked, tipping an imaginary hat.  Unlike most men, Sansa had never seen him wear one. 

“I told him we were going to my dressmaker’s on Fifty-Third.  Do you think he will follow us there?” Myrcella asked, looking out the back window. 

Sandor had been watching the side mirror, but when Myrcella mentioned her dressmaker’s, he shot her a glance through the rearview mirror.  “On Fifty-Third near Sunspear?” he barked out, a fierce look on his face. 

“Yes . . . why?”

“Because the little sh. . . because he sits in a café across from a dressmaker’s shop and writes on his pad of paper several days a week.  It didn’t seem important because Miss Stark doesn’t go there.  Now I know he thought she’d start going to your dressmaker.” 

Sansa was shocked by how not shocked she was with any of this.  “So you’ve been following him.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Sandor answered it anyway.  “Baratheon has me follow him during the day while you are out.”

“And . . . and Petyr now writes his column sitting in a café on Fifty-Third.”  Sansa knew he usually writes  in his penthouse and, on those rare occasions when he wanted to be out during the day other than for a lunch engagement or shopping, he would write at the café on Sixty-Second and Elm.  “What do you think he wants?”

“You,” Sandor rasped, not bothering to sugar-coat it.

Stannis was not going to be happy about this and she dreaded telling him, although she would rather he heard it from her before hearing it from Sandor or Myrcella.  “Have you ever followed him up to High Cliff?”

“I’ve never see him leave the city.”  Sandor pulled out from the curb and started driving, diligently watching the mirrors and occasionally catching her eyes in the rearview mirror.  “It’s highly likely all he wants to do is try to talk himself into your good graces.”  The look on his poor scarred face told her that he wasn’t terribly convinced what he was saying was true. 

Sandor took them back to the brownstone and that evening, Stannis met her there.  They had already had dinner and Robert had heard all about Petyr showing up at Madame Bouvier’s from Myrcella.  Sansa met Stannis at the door and fell into his embrace.  “I know,” he told her.  “Clegane came by the station.”    He had to be exhausted, having driven all the way to High Cliff to feed and let Winter out first before driving all the way back. 

She led him into the dining room where Robert and Myrcella joined them as soon as they heard the door.  Mrs. Caswell sat out a plate of roasted chicken, rice, and vegetables she had kept warm in the oven before him.  Stannis wasn’t one to find it easy to eat while others were watching, but he managed. 

“You’re too calm,” Robert observed, rubbing his forehead.  “What did you do?”

Stannis waited to swallow and took a drink of his water and lemon before calmly answering.  “I called Baelish and told him if he approached Sansa without her making arrangements to meet him or approaching him first, we would take out a restraining order.  And if harm came to her in any way, I wouldn’t bother to question him, I’d blow off his face off with a double-barrel shotgun.” 

Robert slapped his hand on the table in approval while Sansa stared.  “What did Petyr say?”

“He asked me if he could quote me on that.”

“And you said?” Sansa asked, trying to imagine the conversation.

“I told him absolutely.” 

Robert busted out laughing while Myrcella applauded.  Sansa wasn’t worried for herself.  She still couldn’t imagine Petyr actually hurting her, at least not physically.  She was, however, very worried about Stannis and his position on the police force.  The last thing she wanted was for him to lose a job he loved because of her and what Petyr would say when he felt provoked. 

“You know he’s going to put something in his column,” Sansa remarked, worrying her lip. 

“He will,” Robert agreed, “but it will be minor.  Your Uncle Brynden has something on him that’s making him behave, at least somewhat.” 

Stannis took another drink and set the glass down.  “I also called Brynden Tully and told him of Baelish stalking you.  He called me back a half an hour later and said that his threat to expose what he had on Baelish had been upgraded to include his leaving you alone.”

“Is it enough?” Robert wondered.  “It’s worked up to this point in his column, so it must be pretty damning . . . whatever it is.” 

“Clegane will keep following Baelish for at least two more weeks,” Stannis focused his attention on Sansa.  “Watching him on the day of our wedding and the day after are Clegane’s wedding gift.”

_What had her life become that people had to watch her and people were killed in not one, but both of her residences?_

The next morning, Sansa retrieved the paper as soon as it arrived at the brownstone.  Opening to the second page where Petyr’s column usually appeared, she was relieved to see the bulk of the column was about the opening of the play _King Aegon X_.  Sansa actually enjoyed the column; it was a good review and description of who was there and what the ladies at the premiere wore.  Then the column had a postscript: 

 

> Dear Readers, months ago, I told you about how Detective Inspector Stannis Baratheon, who has now been promoted to Detective Chief Inspector, was taking advantage of the unfortunate necessity to keep Miss Sansa Stark hidden from her friends and family in order to look the hero.  It is with much regret that inform you that it seems DCI Baratheon has indeed managed to turn Miss Stark’s head and take her from being the premiere charity event organizer of King’s Landing to a young girl ready to give it up a glamorous life and good works to rattle pots and pans in a policeman’s kitchen.  I’m not yet sure when the nuptials will be, but I give it no more than six months before Miss Stark comes to her senses and files for divorce.  Mark my words! 

Robert had been right; for Petyr, it was the equivalent of a slap on the wrist.  Sansa hoped it wouldn’t cause Stannis any issues with his superiors.  All she could do was wait and see. 

After she was dressed for the day, Sansa went to the florist before where she paid a pretty penny to rush an order for a bouquet of white roses, white peonies, and purple-blue hyacinths as well as white rose boutonnieres for Stannis and Robert and a wrist corsage of the same flowers as the bouquet for Myrcella.  She met Stannis for lunch and he assured her he was unconcerned about the article.  Afterward, they went to the bank and had two drafts made up for two-thousand dollars each.  Nan and Mrs. Cressen would each be able to retire.  She would start interviewing for a housekeeper in the local area after they were married. 

The third day, they went shopping for a new car.  Sansa teased him about wanting a Buick Estate Wagon and Stannis thought she was serious.  For two people who would start a family as soon as possible, it would be a smart purchase, but Sansa was seriously concerned about her ability to drive such a large vehicle in town.  With his partiality to Buicks and her desire for a smaller four-door car, they settled on a burgundy Buick Series 70 Roadmaster.  It was fascinating to watch Stannis negotiate the deal on the car, amazed at how much he managed to get off the price they originally quoted. 

Sansa was both ecstatic and nervous about owning her first car, despite having driven the family car in Winterfell and hiring cars to go to the cottage.  However, she could now go to High Cliff and make dinner for Stannis and play with Winter.  By the time dinner was done, Stannis didn’t want her driving back into town and called Robert to tell him she would be staying the night at High Cliff.  She blushed scarlet when she heard Robert’s booming voice through the phone, “Keep it in your pants for two more nights, Brother!” 

Robert’s instructions weren’t explicitly followed that night, yet Sansa woke up still a virgin.  She had been tempted to suggest that two days shouldn’t make a difference but knew she didn’t want to face a daughter someday and admit she wasn’t a virgin at her wedding.  It was wonderful to sleep an entire night in his arms and not just a ‘nap’.  Sansa didn’t hear him wake up or do his exercises, which she assumed meant he went downstairs to do them.  It wasn’t until the shower was running that she woke up and went down to fix breakfast still wearing one of his button-down shirts. 

“That look will never go out of style,” Stannis mused as he joined her in the kitchen, dressed in a tan silk suit and ready for work.  He wrapped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck.  They had come a long way from that morning when he awkwardly touched her birthmark.  “You could have stayed in bed longer.” 

Sansa rolled her eyes at him.  “There is too much to do today.  I’ve got to have the last fitting of my suit.  I’m hoping there is nothing that needs to be done and I can take it with me today.  Then I will meet you for a late lunch and we can pick up the blood tests and get the license.  What time do you want me to meet you?”

“Is one o’clock too early?”  Stannis admitted that, after reading Baelish’s article, his entire corps of detectives asked him if it was true that they were getting married and encouraged him to take as much time off as he needed.  “They want rid of me already.”  Then he added, “Is it possible to take Myrcella with you for your fitting?”

Sansa realized he tried to make it sound like a casual request rather than a command or to show too much concern.  The truth of the matter was, she had already arranged for Myrcella to go with her and had called and rescheduled the fitting to be close to lunch so that she could say she was meeting Stannis for lunch and be believed.  Fortunately, the time she had arranged was close to the time he wanted to meet her so if he followed her, he would see she hadn’t lied.

Petyr wasn’t at Madame Bouvier’s and she was able to take the suit with her.  At the end of the day, they had a marriage license in hand and an appointment at Judge Selmy’s office for four o’clock the next day.  Sansa didn’t go to High Cliff that evening.  Stannis wouldn’t have wanted her to drive back late and it was bad luck for him to see her until just before they were getting married. 

They met at the brownstone where Myrcella gleefully showed them the letters to the editor column in that day’s edition of The Herald.  Stannis admitted Alysane Mormont had already shown it to him, but this was the first Sansa knew of it.  The editor noted he had received dozens of angry letters from housewives in and around King’s Landing over Petyr Baelish’s column and his insinuation that Miss Stark was somehow made less by becoming a wife and cooking for a husband.  The editor issued an apology on behalf of the paper.  Petyr would rather quit the paper than do such a thing.  He neither apologized nor retracted, and his readers knew it. 

Sansa walked Stannis out his car, both realizing that this time tomorrow they would be husband and wife.  Due to the streetlights, he kissed her quickly and gently but held her for longer than she thought he would when they might be observed by others.  “I love you, Stannis,” she whispered softly. 

“You know I meant every word in that proposal, even if I couldn’t manage to get the words out,” he told her, his dark blue eyes appearing black in the faded light.  “You take my breath away, Sansa Stark.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tommyginger for, once again, bailing me out with the description of Sansa's suit and the flowers!
> 
> Also, while my Westeros often has mixes of US-based this and UK-based that, the marriage laws definitely went the way of the US with no big waiting period.


	27. Chapter 27

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

 

It was difficult to concentrate on the latest assignment rosters when he knew what Sansa would be doing throughout the morning and early afternoon.  It seemed that everyone had a hand into today’s events except him.  Sansa and Myrcella had hair appointments, Robert’s chauffeur was taking suitcases with some of Sansa’s clothes and belongings to High Cliff.  Seaworth insisted that his habit of going in early and staying late allowed him to take a long lunch to drive Marya to High Cliff and let the older boys run around outside with Winter and putting out food for him while she unpacked the suitcases.  He insisted it was part of their wedding gift. 

Earlier in the week, Sansa relieved him by suggesting that Renly be invited, claiming they both knew what it felt like to be the sibling who was left out.  Stannis had wanted to include him, but felt it unfair that their wedding was attended by only his family despite the fact that Robert and Myrcella had years of being closer to her than to him. 

Renly’s response to the invitation was to offer to arrange for a celebratory dinner.  He originally wanted to take everyone to the Crimson Room and Stannis had to explain that he didn’t want to run the risk of Petyr Baelish or any other press showing up.  Renly’s next suggestion was to have it at his penthouse.  The final decision was that Renly would arrange for the Crimson Room to deliver dinner and set it up at Robert’s brownstone with Mrs. Caswell overseeing.  The practicality was that Sansa could pick up any last minute items to take to High Cliff with her. 

The day dragged on with spate of robberies that Stannis sent detectives out to investigate until noon when Jeor Mormont, looking more relaxed than he had ever seen him, knocked on his office door and asked him to step into the bullpen.  As many as possible from the station were gathered, with the notable exception of DI Trant, who wasn’t out of the station, but definitely absent from the group.  There were three wrapped boxes sitting on one of the desks and a small tree with a bow on it sitting on the floor next to the same desk.  The tree was a lemon tree from the Mormonts and was meant to be planted at High Cliff.  Stannis liked the idea of fresh lemons whenever the tree was producing and tried to convey as much in his thanks to his former boss and his daughter. 

The first box was marked from _The Precinct_ and Stannis hated opening it without Sansa, but realized it was expected.  It was a set of twelve cut glass wine goblets, six for red wine and six for white wine.  Stannis was never very good at this sort of thing, having little practice at receiving gifts.  He hoped he accomplished the job of thanking everyone properly for he really was touched by the gift and even more so when he realized they took up a collection and went to the effort.  He even managed a smirk instead of a glare when the ever-smiling DS Massey proclaimed they knew he didn’t drink wine, but any woman married to him would. 

The next two boxes were attached to each other and he was instructed to first unwrap the one that he thought might be a large square picture based on its shape.  It was from _Your Detectives_ and when he opened it, he saw the woodworking of DI Dondarrion.  A picture of Petyr Baelish had been varnished onto a corkboard and then a dart board carefully painted in.  Stannis hated to admit how much he enjoyed the gesture.  “Game of darts, anyone?” he quipped dryly and was relieved when it got the desired laugh.  Mormont announced for him that he couldn’t keep it hanging in his office all the time, but he could drag it out for some late afternoon dart tournaments. 

Stannis awkwardly thanked everyone again and talked briefly to Mormont as they moved the tree into the office until he could get it to High Cliff to replant it.  The older man joked about how organized and uncluttered to the point of being Spartan the office was now, instead of his former clutter.  Before he left, he asked Stannis if he still believed Baelish was a threat to Sansa. 

“We’ll never know for sure until he does something.  I suggested once that Sansa learn to handle a gun and while she initially said no, I believe she may have changed her mind when Baelish showed up at her dressmakers earlier this week.” 

Mormont let out a huffing sound.  “Alysane would be glad to teach her to shoot and could help pick out a gun she can handle.   It might be better for a woman to teach her.” 

Stannis agreed, but today was not the day to have that conversation with his bride.  Today, Sandor Clegane was keeping a close eye on Petyr Baelish and Stannis wanted the threat of Baelish to be the last thing on Sansa’s mind.  He changed the subject by asking how Mormont liked his retirement and learned that Alysane would be moving out and sharing an apartment with a female constable from another precinct, and that Mormont was considering a cottage somewhere on Blackwater Bay.  Stannis realized he was hinting about the possibility of getting a good deal on Sansa’s cottage.  He had little doubt Sansa would sell it for a song, since her estate agent advised her the recent history of a shooting at the cottage would drive the price down while, to their horror, it might increase the value of the apartment in King’s Landing for those seeking a sensational story to go with their new residence.  Stannis, not one to hint, told Mormont that it was Sansa’s decision to make, but he would ask her to hear Mormont’s offer first.  Thanking him once again for the wedding gift, Mormont left and he found he had an hour before time to leave quickly go by his townhouse to shave and change. 

Unable to sit around and wait when there was nothing pressing that he could find to do, Stannis notified DI Dondarrion that he was in charge for the rest of the day and left for the townhouse.  He had purposely left the dark gray suit, burgundy diagonal striped tie, and white dress shirt there to change into rather than try to wear the suit to work or go back to High Cliff to change.  If necessary, there was a shoeshine stand right inside the courthouse.  Downtown traffic was heavier than usual, and he realized the extra time would be beneficial. 

Once he arrived, Stannis showered again, shaved, and changed into the suit Sansa had approved for the wedding.  His townhouse was quiet compared to what he imagined was just the opposite at Robert’s brownstone.   The quiet wasn’t as welcome as it used to be, although there would probably come a day, if Sansa and he did fill High Cliff with children, when he would look back on the quiet and wish for a small measure of it once again. 

The doorbell rang and Stannis found Renly on the other side of it wearing a navy blue suit and a white rose on his lapel.  “I‘m here as your escort to ensure you don’t run away at the last minute,” he announced as he walked in the door, receiving an eye-roll from Stannis.  “I’m also bearing gifts for you from your bride.”  Renly raised up a hand to show a small bag from a jewelers, although stuffed with more than it was intended to hold.   

Stannis took the bag and led Renly into the kitchen.  “Is she nervous or calm?” he asked, glad to have someone who could tell him before he met Sansa at the courthouse. 

The question was greeted with laugh.  “She’s fine . . . Robert is a nervous wreck.”  Renly leaned up against one of the kitchen counters.  “I think he’s trying to figure out if the ghost of Ned Stark approves of you marrying his little girl or whether he’ll strike Robert dead for allowing it.” 

“I seriously doubt I’m what Catelyn Stark had in mind for her,” Stannis grumbled, saying the words that had crossed his mind more times that he cared to count. 

Renly studied him and Stannis found it unnerving, so he diverted himself by looking in the bag.  The first thing he saw was something wrapped in tissue paper.  “That would be the boutonniere,” Renly informed him.  Stannis set it aside on the kitchen counter to put on just before they left.  Underneath the tissue paper bundle was a box wrapped in a deep blue paper and a cream-colored bow.  There was also a small white envelope with his name written on the front.  He took out the card first and opened it.  It had the initial _S_ engraved in a rich gray on the front and inside written in her elegant hand, he read:

> I cannot wait to finally welcome you home, My Love.  Let’s leave for High Cliff as soon as we can politely manage it and go make our firstborn! 
> 
> I love you and I’ve enjoyed the journey as well,
> 
> Sansa

Stannis figured he must have been smiling for his face hurt from the gesture and looking up for a second, he saw a shocked expression on his younger brother.  As nonchalantly as he could manage, Stannis put the card back in its envelope and set it down on the counter, and began to open her gift.  It was a jeweler’s box and inside he found a pair of square white gold cufflinks with most of the square in each being taken up with a black diamond.  Looking at the back of them, Stannis saw she had today’s date engraved on both cufflinks.  Somehow, he knew she would have added something like that.  Raising his arm, he removed the cufflink holding one cuff and replaced it, and then the other.  Renly continued to watch him for a reaction, but he would save that for Sansa. 

“You need a handkerchief for your breast pocket,” Renly advised.  “Robert said you’d moved most of your clothes to the cottage.  Do you have one?”

Handkerchiefs in breast pockets reminded him of Baelish and he wanted no part of that unless Sansa insisted.  “Not today,” he remarked, giving Renly a firm scowl when he started to protest. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I brought the photographer who does pictures for Barasteel’s advertisements to Robert’s and had some pictures taken of your stunning bride and our beautiful niece.  He’ll be at the courthouse to take a few more while the ink is drying on the license.  So if you can manage it, try to think of whatever was on that card when he takes those photographs, hmm?”

As much as he liked the idea of having a photograph of Sansa from their wedding, Stannis wasn’t particularly thrilled with having his own picture taken.  Then he remembered that, even though Robert owned it, the picture of his parents on their wedding day was one of the post precious possessions the Baratheon brothers had.  Someday, those children Sansa and he were thinking of would want to see what they looked like on this day.  They would be treated to a vision of their mother, he was sure.  They could also have a laugh at their father. 

“Thank you, Renly,” he replied.  It was a very nice gesture, and Stannis tried to remember when was the last time he did something for Renly that wasn’t related to Barasteel.  Somehow, Sansa had been a catalyst for bringing the Baratheon brothers closer together and he needed to ensure the effort didn’t go to waste.  “Do you mind going early?  I’d like to get a shoe shine before we go into the judge’s chambers.”   

Taking a look at his Myrian leather shoes, Renly scoffed, “You’re the one who usually doesn’t waste money.  Sansa could use those shoes as a mirror to put on her lipstick!” 

That brought up another thought.  Stannis would have to remind himself to be careful of how he kissed her or they could have a repeat of several of their lipstick smearing episodes.   

Ignoring Renly’s half-hearted protest, Stannis excused himself and went to his bedroom and took his suit jacket out of the closet and put it on.   On the nightstand, he picked up the list he’d made list he’d made and checked the contents of his interior jacket pocket against the list:

  * Ring
  * License
  * Check for Judge Selmy



They were all there.  Stannis returned to the kitchen to find Renly ready to help him with the boutonniere.  He stood still while his brother placed the white rose on his lapel and pinned it from underneath.  It took him two tries before he was satisfied with the result.  Stannis assumed if it wasn’t to Sansa’s liking, she would redo it. 

A half-hour and two shoe shines later, as Renly decided he might as well join him, they were outside in the lobby of Judge Selmy’s chambers.  Stannis stood when he heard Robert voice out in the hall and as Robert held the door open, he took in the sight of his future wife carrying a bouquet of white roses and some other flowers he wouldn’t have been able to name.  There was something incredibly wrong with a universe where he was able to possess such beauty, but he wasn’t about to argue.  Her off-white suit . . . she had said it was cream, but he would have said ivory which showed how much he knew . . . reminded him of the suit she wore the night he woke to find her standing before him although this one was far more ornate with the pearls and trim.  Instead of the wide brimmed hat she wore then, Sansa wore a cream wool pillbox hat that sat to the side atop her hair and had a veil with pearls that came down to the top of her forehead.  He was glad she decided to wear her hair down rather than piled on top of her head.  The photographs would be for others to know how incomprehensibly beautiful she was on this day; Stannis would never forget the sight of her at this moment for as long as he lived. 

They each took the steps necessary to stand in front of each other and as Stannis took her hand and looked into her eyes, he heard sound made by others around them, and had no idea what they were saying.  The sweetness of her smile and the shy way she looked up at him through her long eyelashes  made him wish it was just the two of them in that room, or at the very least that they could send everyone else to Renly’s dinner and leave for High Cliff as soon as Judge Selmy pronounced them man and wife. 

Remembering her note about leaving as soon as possible made Stannis also remember her gift.  “Thank you for the cufflinks,” he blurted out and then mentally scolded himself for leading with that rather than a comment about how lovely she looked.  Trying to recover, Stannis took a step closer to her and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “We’ll discuss how beautiful you are when we’re alone.”

His comment seemed to please her for she squeezed his hand and whispered back, “I’m rather hoping how I look when we’re alone will leave you speechless.”  _Oh gods!_   A certain part of his anatomy began to respond to the sultriness of her voice and her reference to what she might or might not be wearing later tonight. Stannis had to look away . . . looking at Robert was good for putting any thoughts along those lines to a full stop.  

Letting go of her hand nervously, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the ring.  “Robert, you’ll need this,” he said, his voice a little shaky as he handed the ring to his older brother. 

“A little nervous are you?” Robert teased with an eyebrow raised while Myrcella took the opportunity of his separating briefly from Sansa to give him a quick hug as a greeting.  The corsage on her wrist tickled his ear. 

“No, he’s not nervous!” Myrcella insisted.  “Sansa has just left him speechless, that’s all!”

He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if he found out that Myrcella overheard Sansa and used the word _speechless_ on purpose.  On purpose or not, Stannis had to take another look at Robert’s rounded face to regain his equilibrium. 

A buzzer went off and they all looked at the lady at a small wooden desk as she picked up one of the two telephone receivers that was probably an intercom system rather than telephone.  “Judge Selmy is ready for you now,” the petite blonde with thick black glasses said, getting up from her desk and opening the door to the judge’s chambers. 

Stannis put his hand on Sansa’s back and led them into the room, although Robert was the first to get to the judge and greet him as the old friends they were.  Judge Selmy, wearing his official black robe, next enveloped Myrcella into a hug and told her how it had been too long since she’d been to his house for a visit.  Stannis had forgotten that while Ned Stark had been Joffrey’s god-father, Selmy was Myrcella’s.  The judge shook hands with Renly and said a few words before turning to Stannis with an outstretched hand.  “It’s good to see you again, Stannis.  I’m glad you asked me to do this honor.” 

“I’m very grateful to you Judge Selmy,” and he knew the judge understood it was for the search warrant on Baelish’s penthouse as well as this ceremony. 

The judge then turned to Sansa and put his hands on her arms, taking a good look at her.  “I was a good friend of your father’s.  I see you have your mother’s beauty, but I see a bit of Ned in your face as well.  He was a fine man and it’s my great pleasure to meet you and officiate at your wedding.” 

Stannis was worried Sansa would tear up or even cry at the mention of her parents, but she smiled and told the judge how happy she was to have a friend of her father’s joining them in marriage. 

“Well then,” Selmy announced in his rich baritone, “If you’re ready I’d like you to stand over here and we’ll proceed.” 

Stannis led her to the spot about five feet from the front of his large oak desk and stood beside her.  Robert and Renly fell in line to the right of him and Myrcella to the left of Sansa.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa and Myrcella clasp hands briefly and smile at each other before Sansa returned both of her hands to her bouquet. 

The judge took his place in front of them and started by giving a speech on the sanctity of marriage and then turned to Sansa and nodded.  They turned towards each other and she smiled as she said the vows every Westerosi knew by heart, “With this kiss I pledge my love and take you, Stannis, for my husband.”  She stood on her toes to meet him as he leaned down for the light kiss he knew was meant to be lipstick proof. 

He didn’t wait for the judge to signal him.  Looking into her deep blue eyes and talking only to her, Stannis clearly spoke, “With this kiss I pledge my love and take you, Sansa, for my wife.”  He leaned down and kissed her. 

Judge Selmy asked Sansa if she had a ring and while she had never mentioned it, he wasn’t surprised to learn that she did.  Myrcella took the solid white gold band off of her thumb and handed it to Sansa, who gave her the bouquet in turn.  “Place the ring on his finger and repeat after me . . . “

Sansa put the ring on his finger and repeated the judge’s words.  “I give you this ring as a symbol of my commitment to love, honor, and cherish you until we part in death.” 

Stannis took the diamond studded wedding band that matched the Baratheon family engagement ring and placed it on her slender finger and promised to love, honor, and cherish her for the rest of his life.  It was the easiest promise he had ever made. 

“I solemnly proclaim Stannis and Sansa to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and let know one come between them,” Selmy proclaimed to complete the ceremony.  “You may now kiss the bride.” 

 _Don’t smear the lipstick!_    He started to lean down, but instead of leaning her head up toward him, she pulled something out of her sleeve first.  It was white lace handkerchief.  Sansa quickly blotted her lipstick and everyone, including the judge, laughed and clapped while Stannis was sure he was hurting his face again as he claimed his bride in a long kiss that he had to end when their natural inclination to open their mouths to each other kicked in. 

“Did you think that was even remotely possible?” Renly joked to Robert. 

‘Scary as hell, isn’t it?” Robert bellowed.  Let them say whatever they wanted.  The woman whose hand he held was now Sansa Baratheon  . . . his wife.   

After the license was signed and the judge paid, Sansa took a tube of lipstick and a compact from Myrcella’s clutch to redo her lipstick for the photographs.  The Barasteel photographer was waiting in the judge’s lobby and Stannis was certain he blinked for every photograph taken.  It didn’t matter; years from now, no one would be looking at anyone but Sansa. 

The dinner at Robert’s was a blur with the exception of Robert trying to make a wedding gift of High Cliff.  Stannis could not allow such an extravagance and Sansa agreed.  He remembered what he got Robert and Cersei as as a wedding gift when they married.  He had been fifteen and Renly was eleven.  Cersei had not been pleased with the receipt of the vacuum cleaner they gave her as a gift.  Robert was a little more pleasant about the new golf clubs.  Combined, they were a far cry from a house.  They stopped short of a major argument and agreed that Robert’s gift would be to take five percent off the appraised value and they would keep whatever furniture Myrcella and Martell couldn’t use for their apartment.  It was still too generous. 

Not soon enough for his liking, they were in Stannis’ Buick and headed for High Cliff.  Sansa sat close to him and Stannis decided two hands on the wheel wasn’t always a hard rule as he put an arm around her shoulders.  He still wanted to tell her how breathtakingly beautiful she was, yet anything he thought to say seemed incomplete for the task.  Instead, he told her about the wine glasses and lemon tree presents, and of Mormont’s interest in her cottage.   Sansa was excited about the possibility of selling at least one of their extraneous residences, especially since it was the one they were told would be the most difficult to sell. 

Once they were at High Cliff, Stannis parked as close as he could to the door and helped Sansa out of the car.  Winter, in his outdoor dog house, barked out a hello.  It was already dark, with the only lights being the moonlight and the outdoor gas lanterns at the door.  Stannis unlocked the door and switched on the light and ever the traditionalist, he scooped her up and carried Sansa across the threshold, kissing her once they were inside the door.  He held her against him and kissed her hungrily, trying to tell Sansa what he felt words were inadequate to do. 

Stannis ended the kiss because he was afraid he was going to drop her.  He started to carry her upstairs when she whispered in his ear, “Your robe is in the downstairs bedroom with the full-sized bed.  Feed Winter and then change.”  She kissed his ear and trailed a kiss across his cheek before he let her down.  “Give me about twenty minutes.”  Gently stroking her cheek, Stannis nodded and then watched her make her way to the stairs.  

They both seemed to agree that Winter would be sleeping in his new outdoor dog house tonight.  Stannis fed him and then made his way to the downstairs bedroom where he took off his suit, hung it up properly, and completely undressed.  He put on the robe and spent the remaining ten minutes both staring at his watch and wondering if he should put his boxers back on.  It was a logical assumption that she was putting on some negligee and possibly a peignoir, but he doubted she would put on much underneath.  His plan was to enjoy the sight and then get whatever she was wearing off of her as soon as she would allow. 

As the second hand made its way past the twelve signaling exactly twenty minutes, Stannis made his way up the stairs.  There was a glow coming from the top of the stairs and smelled a touch of sulfur in the air.  She must have set out candles and lit them.     

Coming to the top of the stairs and into the master suite, it was indeed alight with candles set on just about every flat surface possible.  He started walking toward her as she was lighting the last two on the dresser.  She stood waiting for him, wearing an ice blue satin or satin-look negligee with most of the V-neck top being all lace while the skirt of the negligee was much like the evening gown she wore to the concert in that it hugged her slender shape.  The closer he got to her, the realized how sheer the lace really was, yet there was some satin underneath the area covering her breasts to save her from being  scratched by the stiffer lace.  She wasn’t exaggerating; Stannis couldn’t have formed words if he tried.  Instead, he reached an arm around her and pulled her into searing kiss while his hands roamed along her bare back and down along her firm bottom.  Stannis knew he had started to harden the second he saw her and he groaned into her mouth as their tongues danced and bodies instinctually moved against each other. 

With her arms already around his neck, Stannis lifted her again and carried her the rest of the way to the bed.  They ended up with her on her back; Stannis hovered over her, propped on one elbow at her side.  With his free hand he stroked her cheek and then moved to claim her lips again.  This kiss started with want and burned with passion as her arm wound around his neck and they moved until their bodies were back to where they had been when they were standing, strained against each other.  When he thrust up against her, Stannis pulled away . . . he didn’t want to go there yet. 

“Darling, we’re going to start as we have been,” he told her, caressing the exposed parts of her shoulder and running the backs of his fingers down the open V of her negligee.  Sansa’s body arched towards his touch as she watched him with heavy-lidded eyes.   Kissing her jaw and then her neck, he slid his hand into the negligee until he cupped her breast and ran his thumb over the hardened pebble.  Sansa’s response was to squirm and put her hand through his hair as if asking him to bend his head there.  He wasn’t exactly sure that was the invitation she was issuing, but he slid the negligee off her shoulder until his hand and her breast was exposed in the candlelight.  Leaning down, Stannis took the nipple in his mouth and stroked the underside of her breast with his thumb; he was rewarded with sharp intake of breath and her lower half involuntarily squirming more. 

Her response inflamed him, as did the touch of her velvety skin.  Stannis slipped the other shoulder strap of her negligee off and moved it down her arm.  He trailed his tongue to her other breast, lathing her nipple and sucking it into his mouth.  Sansa continued to arch toward him and making mewling sounds that urged him on.  Her fingers ran down his back and he wanted her to touch his body, not his robe; he wanted access to touching all of her and not silky fabric and lace.  “Sansa . . . Love . . . this is lovely and you are a vision in it . . . “ 

Sansa didn’t seem to need to hear the rest.  As she started to raise up, he moved away from her to give her room.   He thought she would try to remove the negligee while still on the bed, but she slid off of the bed and brought the negligee up over her head and folded it quickly, laying it in a nearby chair before returning to stand next to the bed.  Stannis couldn’t take his eyes off of her . . . she was the most exquisite sight he had ever seen as her hair spilled over her shoulders half exposing her firm breasts and her body tapering down to a tiny waist that widened into slender curves at her hips.  “You now,” Sansa said huskily. 

As she had, he got off of the bed and untied his robe, shrugging it off of his shoulders until he was free of it.  Stannis folded it until he was able to toss it across the bed where he was amazed it landed in the same chair she put her negligee on. 

They returned to the bed together, both laying on their sides facing each other.  Stannis pulled her to him, kissing her and running his hands along her smooth back and bottom.  Unconsciously, he pressed her bottom closer and felt his manhood grind into her and her arch back into him in response.  He heard himself moan into her sweet mouth.  Stannis moved her onto her back again, where he could continue what he started.  Leaving her mouth, Stannis kissed and lathed a trail to her neck.  The sensitive spot he’d found there months ago was something that he knew made her body come alive.  Her fingernails raked against his back and across his shoulders, and he could tell by the pressure she used and the randomness of the way she stroked him that her arousal had increased. 

Finding his way back to her breasts, Sansa began try to move sideways as if the lower half of her body was trying to find him for contact.  Running his hand down her stomach, he gently rubbed the heel of his palm against the sensitive bundle of nerves desiring attention.  He stopped suckling her breasts and watched as her eyes rolled back and he ground his hand against her again.   It took every ounce of control he possessed not to slip himself between her legs and thrust inside her at the sound of her throaty voice crying out his name. 

She was already wet and it was easy to slip one finger inside her.  Sansa arched upwards again and began thrusting against his hand.  He moved so that his finger could pump inside her and his thumb continue to rub her center.  Carefully, Stannis inserted another finger and watched her for her reaction.  Sansa’s eyes widened.  “Talk to me, Love.  Tell me if anything hurts you.” 

“It’s . . . it’s so good!” she panted.  With that, Stannis continued to pump his two fingers inside her, stretching and hoping to make her ready for him. 

Her legs spread farther apart, but he wanted to make absolutely sure she was almost there before he attempted to enter her.  Stannis wasn’t sure whether he should give her a full release first and that way she might be more relaxed or whether he should enter her just before she was ready to release.  He decided on the later when he increased the pace and one of her hands left his back to fist the sheets, her head lolling to the side.  She was close.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of her and positioned himself between her thighs, propping himself up on one elbow and using his hand to guide himself to her opening.  Their eyes bore into each other as he rubbed the head of his manhood against her.  Sansa arched upward in invitation and Stannis, as slowly as he could manage, entered her. 

She bit her lip and took in a sharp breath as he began to breach her barrier.   He wanted to tell her to try to relax, but kissed her instead.  As her tongue thrust against he, Stannis moved farther and his heart sank as he felt her body go completely stiff and knew she must be feeling pain.  He started to pull out and Sansa stopped him by wrapping her legs around his hips.  “Are you certain?”

Her answer was to bring her hand to his face and stroke his cheek.  Stannis moved inside her again, not completely burying himself in her, reveling in the overwhelming sensation of her tight walls and heat around him and her naked body beneath him.  Afraid he might release too soon, he began to slowly move out and then in her again.  It was indescribable good. His body screamed at him to quicken the pace, and it took every ounce of control not to.  Each time he moved into her, he buried himself a little deeper and they both seemed to moan one after the other as if it was some animalistic mating call. 

Sansa’s legs tightened around him and he picked up the pace.  It must have been what she wanted for she fisted the sheets again and cried out.  He could feel her walls tightening and it was all he could do to hold back.  She signaled she wanted him to go even faster by the way she answered his thrusts and he eagerly complied.   Their two bodies moved in harmony and he claimed her mouth again, their tongues trying to mimic what their lower half was doing.   Stannis felt the first wave of release hit her and slowed down, but plunged harder into her.  When she arched her back and squeezed him in final throes of her release, Stannis went over the edge right along with her. 

As carefully as he could, Stannis pulled himself out of her and leaned down to touch his forehead to hers; they were both too out of breath for him to kiss her right away.   Eventually, Stannis rolled off of her and was pleased when she immediately turned to her side and pressed her body against his, laying her head on his chest.  He ran his fingers through her hair and stroked her back while they waited for their breathing to calm.  “I need to know how you’re feeling,” he said, realizing after it was out that there was probably a gentler, more romantic way to ask her if she was okay after her first time . . . their first time together. 

“I’m perfect,” she said, still a bit breathless before setting her chin on his chest and looking up at him with large blue eyes.  “Now can I tell you welcome home?”

Stannis kissed the top of her head, knowing he had the most ridiculous smile on his face.  “There’s no place like home.” 


	28. Chapter 28

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Baratheon

 

Two dozen long-stemmed roses were delivered to High Cliff on the morning of their one-month anniversary with a card signed, “All my love, Stannis.”  It was only fitting that the first sign of morning sickness came shortly after Sansa arranged the flowers in a milk-glass vase.  She was late on her monthly cycle and when Stannis had stroked or suckled her breasts recently, they were so tender she had considered asked him to stop.    

Her doctor saw her the following afternoon and while Dr. Pylos said he wouldn’t be able to confirm her pregnancy for several months unless she had a rabbit test, he admitted she had all the classic signs.  When Sansa found out that the rabbit was killed and dissected to determine the results, she decided she would rather wait for a future doctor’s visit to get an official confirmation.  Dr. Pylos asked her about her diet and suggested she be very careful not to gain too much weight or to drink too much alcohol.  Living with Stannis, she barely touched alcohol anymore so that was no great loss.

Although Sansa assumed their new housekeeper, Mrs. Glover, suspected she was pregnant, Sansa decided to wait until after they had cleaned out the townhouse and apartment to get them ready to sell before she told Stannis.  Otherwise, he would either watch over her himself or have someone else do it to keep her from lifting a hand to do anything. 

Sansa didn’t like keeping secrets from Stannis and she told herself she was merely waiting to be sure before she got him or anyone else excited by the possibility only to be disappointed later.  Yet there was one secret she was keeping, or rather two that were the same secret.  Sansa had met Petyr Baelish for lunch on two different occasions while downtown over the past month.  The first had been by accident, wasn’t a full engagement, and fulfilled Stannis’ requirement that she never see him unless someone else was around.  She had been having lunch with Barbrey Redfort and Emma Manwoody to discuss orphanage business when Petyr walked up to their table.  She had no choice but to ask him to join them for dessert.  He had been witty and pleasant, asking about the children for which Sansa knew he had no interest or sympathy.  Her companions were enchanted, although Barbrey did remark later that she had not forgotten his crass remarks about only giving Sansa’s marriage six months in his column. 

Before Petyr left, and in front of others so that it made turning him down difficult, Petyr invited her to have lunch with him the following week at the same location.  She knew Stannis would hire Sandor Clegane to sit in the restaurant and observe them, if not sit with them.  Stretching what she agreed to, Sansa decided a crowded restaurant qualified as not meeting Petyr alone and agreed. 

Petyr started being very charming and regaling her of stories of their common acquaintances.  He hadn’t been pleased when she asked him to refrain from the nastier observations.  Sansa was determined not to allow him to drag her into listening to his cutting remarks without defending people she either liked or thought of as friends. 

Midway through lunch, Petyr brought up Stannis and their marriage.  “My Dear, you cannot lie to me.  The novelty of being in a man’s bed has to have worn off and I’m sure you’ve realized that you could have far more interesting partners if you must.  Divorce is not easy, but it’s far from impossible.  I have just the attorney to handle it when you’re ready.  He might even be able to get you some of the better pieces of the Baratheon jewels as part of the divorce settlement.”  Petyr droned on as if he were commenting on the weather.  She could scarcely believe how blithely he talked to her about ending her marriage and having other men as if that would be something changed as one changed outfits. 

This was proof his constant badgering of Stannis and of her marriage would never end, and she swore to herself this would only warn him one more time and if he persisted, she would never socialize with him again.  “Petyr, I am very happily married and most of all, I love Stannis very much.  You either respect that or we cannot be friends.  I am very serious about that.” 

Petyr’s expression didn’t change, yet the anger in his eyes was unmistakable.  He stared at her for several seconds before smiling, at least with his lips.  “If you insist, My Dear.  You must admit you are bored to tears out there in the hinterland.  I’ve never understood your attraction for Blackwater Bay.  It was one thing to visit there on the weekend if you must, but you can’t possibly enjoy living out there having to eat what you or your housekeeper makes for dinner because there aren’t any decent restaurants nearby.  It’s . . . barbaric!”

That struck her as amusing.  “Oh, Petyr!  We are so different, you and I!  I still enjoy going to the theatre and concerts, but they aren’t nearly as glamorous as they once were.  I truly enjoy sitting with Stannis while we both read after dinner and playing with the puppy after a day of board meetings and running errands.” 

He did not look convinced.  “What is your husband’s aversion to opening nights and the after parties?  You used to enjoy those nights a great deal until you were influenced by the Baratheons.  Now, you go to the theatre, but during the run of the play as others do.  You cannot mean that you find that . . . enjoyable.  It’s common and you were born to be anything but common!” 

Sansa sighed and picked at her salad, realizing nothing was going to satisfy him. 

“Tell me, is he wearing a sheath or are you well supplied in moon tea?  You do not want to ruin your body bearing brats.  It widened your mother’s hips and ruined her breasts.  I know it’s hard to get moon tea these days.  I will find a supplier for you.” 

It was Sansa’s turn to be angry.  “Petyr, please!  That is quite enough!” 

They finished lunch in silence and Sansa wanted to object when he ordered coffee.  However, Petyr must have realized the futility of the tact he was taking.  “What are you going to do about your apartment?”

“Sell it,” she answered, grateful for the change in subject.  The conversation had already ruined her appetite. 

“Do you mind terribly if I take back a few things I gave you?  I would like the onyx dancer figure, but if you’re terribly fond of it, then you may keep it.  You still have several books I loaned you and, if you would be so kind, I would like the longcase clock back.  My maid nicked the wood on mine with the vacuum cleaner and you know how I loathe having anything that is damaged or ruined in any way.” 

Sansa thought the request of taking back a gift was a level of tactlessness that was unusual for Petyr.  His venture into that area was generally limited to what he said and wrote about others, although Sansa was willing to concede that she either did not know him as well as she thought or had turned a blind eye to much of his character in the past.  Be that as it may, the request was a relief.  They had too much furniture and getting rid of anything at this point was one less decision to make. 

“Stannis is coordinating when and how all of the furniture is moved,” she informed him.  Then she added with an enjoyment she was not proud of.  “I am sure he will not object to giving the clock up or your taking the books; however, you will have to call him to make arrangements.  He is easier to get in touch with now that he is a chief inspector.” 

Petyr did bother to hide his annoyance.  “I would prefer to meet you at the apartment and take them.  I would bring some big strong men to carry the clock and I could look through your books for the ones that are mine.”  The way he spoke of the big strong men sounded as though he expected that to have some additional appeal. 

Lowering her head and feeling a pang of sorrow at remembering Jeyne, Sansa explained why that would not happen.  “I have not been back to the apartment since the night I returned to find out what had happened while I was away.” 

“Well, then I shall have to call DCI Baratheon,” was the last Petyr said on the subject. 

He did call Stannis the next day and ask to arrange a meeting or to be left a key.  The result was a plan for a big moving day the weekend after next in which Petyr could come by and retrieve his things.  Different sets of movers were involved and it was a complicated process that Stannis had all worked out with a timetable on paper.  Each location had all furniture marked with a piece of colored paper that indicated its ultimate location. 

When the first day of the big move arrived, Marya Seaworth and Trys Martell were at High Cliff.  One moving van would be picking up items marked for Myrcella’s and Trys’s apartment.  Although she hadn’t moved into the apartment yet, Myrcella wanted to be the one directing the movers on where to put everything.  The twin beds had already been taken to the Seaworth’s the evening before in a pickup truck borrowed from Davos’ good brother.  Another set of movers would be coming by to take what wasn’t staying at High Cliff to take it to the auction house. 

Next, the movers taking items to the auction house would pick up at the apartment where Stannis and Davos packed items she wanted to keep that Stannis had not already moved to High Cliff.  A third moving company would be picking up what they packed and furniture that was going to High Cliff.  They would also wait there for Petyr Baelish to bring movers for the clock and pick out whatever books he wanted to take with him.  Stannis had not been pleased about having to see Petyr, but was adamant she wouldn’t be there and Sansa had no desire to go back to the apartment. 

Sansa stayed at the townhouse, packing items until Stannis and Davos joined her there.  It was the last location the movers would visit for today.  The first would be the movers picking up items for the auction house, followed by the movers taking items to High Cliff.  The movers for items that would end up at High Cliff were scheduled to pick up from the townhouse at the end of the day.  Everything collected for High Cliff would be delivered there the next morning where Sansa was very grateful that Marya volunteered to help them unpack. 

Stannis had obtained boxes from the moving company and Sansa first packed items from the kitchen.  He had received the news that there was nothing in the townhouse’s kitchen that needed to go to High Cliff with an amused glint in his eye. 

After the kitchen, the largest amount of packing was all the books in Stannis’ library.  The bookshelves would go to High Cliff and have a temporary home in the bedroom vacated by the twin beds.  In the redecorating of the house, they had stripped the room of its feminine wallpaper and painted the walls a soft blue-gray.  Until the new wing was added, the room would serve as Stannis’ study and the bookcases would have their home there. 

Having been instructed that Stannis and Davos would pack the books at the top of the bookshelves, Sansa was halfway through the books when the doorbell range.  Looking at her watch, she hoped it meant that Stannis was done early or had sent Davos to help her for if the movers were her, she wasn’t anywhere near ready for them.  They weren’t due for four hours. 

Going to the door, Sansa opened it and was confused by who she saw there.  “Petyr!  I thought you were going to the townhouse?”    She had never seen him wearing corduroy trousers and a button-down shirt open at the collar.  It was actually rather shocking to see him so casually attired, and in what one might consider workmen’s clothes.  If he hadn’t taken off the sunglasses as soon as she opened the door, she wouldn’t have recognized him.    

“I will, but I wanted to come by here first.  Will you let me in, My Dear?” 

Stannis would not like this at all, but Sansa was at a loss for a reasonable argument.  Sansa stepped aside to let him in.   


	29. Chapter 29

King’s Landing, 1940  
Davos Seaworth

Only Stannis Baratheon could orchestrate something as complicated as moving furniture to three different locations in one weekend . . . four if you counted the auction house. It was fortunate Mormont bought Sansa’s cottage and most of the furniture in it. Marya, who was friends with Mormont’s wife, asked her whether they were concerned about grandchildren coming to visit as the cottage only had one bedroom. Evidently Mrs. Mormont had been concerned, but Mormont concluded that’s what sleeping bags and tents were for. Marya eventually got around to the question she was most curious about; whether they were put off by Ramsay Bolton being shot and killed there. Of course, Davos was pretty certain Marya had been less direct in the way she asked the question. Marya told him that Lyra Mormont had shrugged it off, although she said she had threatened her husband with a tent and sleeping bag of his own if he ever used the story to scare their grandchildren. If Mormont thought it would allow him to fish through the night, he might risk it.

Most of the furniture was left just as it had been the first night he walked into the apartment months ago. Conspicuously absent was Sansa’s portrait that used to hang over the fireplace. Davos remembered watching Baratheon stare at it and not knowing whether to be impressed with his comment about hair color or whether Baratheon was just being an art critic. It turned out to be an astute observation, yet Davos now wondered whether Baratheon was focused on that portrait because he was looking for clues or he was fascinated by the subject. Perhaps both.

Baratheon noted that very few items of furniture were going to High Cliff. Davos supposed it was because Sansa want as few reminders of the apartment and what happened here as possible. He was no decorator and had absolutely no knowledge of what worked or what didn’t, yet he could tell that this furniture was more fitting to a luxury downtown apartment than a bayside cottage, even if the cottage was huge. 

“If you see anything you or Marya might want, change the tag for High Cliff and you can pick it up there later,” Baratheon offered, trying to make light of the gesture. Davos imagined he already knew it wasn’t going to happen, despite knowing they weren’t the least bit interested in making a profit off of the furniture. The fact that the funds would probably be donated was the key reason he passed on one of the wing back chairs for Marya. The twin beds were too generous as it was. At least Baratheon wasn’t trying to make the argument that it was payment for their help today. Six months ago, as a man with few, if any, real friends, Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t have accepted his help with the move. Or if he did, he would have tried to pay him. Davos was glad he’d learned not to even bring it up. Otherwise, Davos would have had to insist on an invoice for the three times Sansa and Baratheon watched the boys so he could take Marya to the movies. They would never know until they had kids of their own what a treat they were giving them! 

A detailed list told him his first chore was to empty the contents of any bottles already open in the liquor cabinet and pack the rest. “What time are Baelish and his goons going to be here?” he asked as he inspected the cabinet and pulled out open bottles. It was shame to waste good booze like this!

“At noon,” Baratheon replied, scowling deeper at the mention of the name. “He called yesterday to confirm. Asked me if Sansa had told me about their having lunch together two weeks ago . . . hoping to start a fight, I assume.”

Having Stannis tell him something this personal was highly unusual. “What did Sansa say about it?”

“I haven’t told her I know. She had lunch with him where there were other people around and I have very little doubt he coerced her into meeting him.” Baratheon started wrapping figurines and setting them in a box. “Sansa did as I asked in meeting him only in a public place. And she told him to call me about the clock. Clegane says he’s stopped sitting in front Myrcella’s dressmaker’s shop and has returned to spending most of the day at either his penthouse, The Herald, or the radio station before going out in the evening.”

Davos suddenly recognized what was going on. As they did as partners on a case, Baratheon was running theories by him. This was the way he worked through thoughts. “Maybe getting rid of that damned clock is the last the two of you will see of him,” Davos responded, knowing he didn’t sound all that convincing. He wasn’t sure what Baelish’s end game was or if there was a game he was playing. The facts never did fully add up to clearly point to Ramsay Bolton. However, the only argument for it being Petyr Baelish was Baratheon’s belief in his being a psychopath. What Davos did know is that the man thought the rules didn’t apply to him and that sort of man was extremely dangerous. 

“I’m done here. Are we separating the boxes for High Cliff from the ones for the auction house?” 

Baratheon glanced around the room. “Start stacking the boxes going to High Cliff next to the clock. We can stack the boxes going to the auction house on the wall next to the entrance to the hall over. I can’t pack the books until Baelish has looked them over, so what’s next on the list?” 

Davos picked up the paper and perused it, “The kitchen. Looks like all of it is going to High Cliff.”

Looking none too excited, Baratheon grabbed an empty box and a stack of newspapers, and made for the galley kitchen. As a man, Davos knew and shared his trepidation of breaking a glass or a dish. It was bad enough for the husband; it was doubly so for the husband’s friend. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Davos couldn’t imagine Sansa Baratheon raising her voice to anyone over a broken glass or dish. 

The box of liquor bottles was heavy, but manageable. After setting it up against the wall next to the clock, Davos joined Baratheon in the kitchen, starting with the cupboard on the opposite end of where he was working. Wrapping glasses in newspaper, they both worked silently. Davos remembered the older lady who had been Sansa’s housekeeper showing them dirty glasses as he wrapped a set of six glasses instead of eight. The other two were probably still in evidence. He had to admit, if any of Sansa’s glassware and crystal were going to the auction house, he would be reconsidering his stance on boxing a set or two for Marya. He hoped he could buy her something that nice one day. 

The silence wore thin and they passed the time by talking about things going on at both the downtown precinct and at the sheriff’s office while pulling and wrapping items from the cupboards. Davos wanted to ask him how he managed Meryn Trant’s transfer, but thought better of it. Despite being friends, Baratheon would never cross the line of talking about personnel matters. 

Boxes were filled and stacked one top of each other and second row was started. They were both carrying a box into the drawing room when Stannis bumped into the stack and jostled the clock. They both heard it . . . the heavy thudding of something moving around that shouldn’t be. The clock didn’t have a long pendulum, so that couldn’t account for that sound. Baratheon’s eyes were large and his scowl fierce as he rounded the boxes and opened the lower half of the longcase clock. 

“Uniforms checked inside there,” Davos said as Baratheon sat back on his haunches to inspect the lower inside of the clock case. “It’s the same as Baelish’s clock . . . nothing there.” 

Baratheon stretched his fingers wide to measure inside the bare opening, and did the same on the outside width. “Roughly four inches difference. Three quarters of that would be the outer wall of the case.” He put both hands on the case and jostled it harder. This time, the chimes made a clanging sound and there was a side to side thudding of something heavy that was definitely in that lower half of the case. Crouching down beside Baratheon, he watched as Stannis ran his hand inside false back looking for latch or something that opened the panel. 

“That’s what the ten minutes was about,” Davos thought aloud. “Baelish was trying to find something to pry open the panel. Once he did, he stored the shotgun there, put the panel back, and left.”

“Help me turn it around,” Baratheon instructed. They lifted it away from the wall until it was out far enough to turn it around. Losing patience, Baratheon shoved it onto the floor, the chimes making a metallic clanking that drowned out any thudding from what they strong suspected was inside. 

Davos realized what Baratheon intended to do and was going to advise that they call for uniforms to witness opening the case. Before he could even start to form the words, Baratheon had opened the lower casement door and put his foot into the fake panel. It was enough to crack the thin piece of painted wood and allow Baratheon to reach down and pull the panel away. 

Inside this secret compartment was a double-barrel shotgun; undoubtedly the weapon used to murder Jeyne Bolton and undoubted meant to kill Sansa. “I’ll call uniforms to come get it to mark as evidence,” Davos offered, checking his watch. It was fifteen minutes before Baelish was due to arrive. He really wished Baratheon had waited to let him call them before opening the panel. At least with him there, he could swear in court that Baratheon wasn’t alone and didn’t plant it to frame Baelish. 

Baratheon began to pace while Davos made the call. He’d just hung up when Davos saw something he’d only seen once before on his former partner’s face . . . it was panic and he’d only seen it when he thought Sansa had been the one killed at her cottage instead of Ramsay Bolton. 

“Baelish isn’t coming here,” Baratheon choked out, staring at him with glassy eyes in a face that was drained of color. “This was a ploy to get me away from her! Call the precinct and get someone to the townhouse . . . NOW!” 

Without another word, Baratheon was running out the door. Davos could hear his feet as they made their way down the hall and the banging of the heavy metal door to the stairs; he wasn’t waiting for an elevator. 

Davos picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the precinct. When the desk sergeant answered, Davos realized he had been to Baratheon’s townhouse many times, but he didn’t know the exact address. “Sergeant, this is DI Seaworth again. There’s a possible two seventeen,” he relayed, giving the police code for an assault with intent to murder. “Dispatch armed uniforms to Forty-Eighth Street near Godswood and then look up DCI Baratheon’s exact address and give it to them. The suspect is Petyr Baelish and DCI Baratheon is en route.”

As soon as the Sergeant acknowledged the information, Davos lowered the plunger on the phone cradle and let it up again to get a dial tone. He started to dial the number to the town house and stopped before he put his finger in the hole for the last number to move the dial and complete the call. Baratheon hadn’t told him to call Sansa and warn her . . . _why? Had he thought that went without saying or was there a reason not to call her?_

Davos remembered his first meeting with Petyr Baelish at his penthouse. The man liked to talk and show how clever he was. If he was there, he might be talking and a phone call could let him know Baratheon was on to him and encourage him to rush whatever his intentions were. Then again, that night at Sansa’s apartment, he shot in the darkness, expecting her to answer the door and not considering it might be someone else. Davos knew he had to stay until uniforms arrived to collect the shotgun. Other than that, Davos was totally unsure of what to do. 


	30. Chapter 30

King’s Landing, 1940  
Petyr Baelish

 

Initially, Petyr’s intent was merely to remove the clock and do away with the shotgun. When he put it in the clock case, Petyr thought he would be able to retrieve it by coercing Lysa into letting him take a few books and whatever other small items he claimed he owned.  Robb Stark would have turned everything over to Lysa for disposal.  Petyr had taken a significant risk walking in with the shotgun underneath his overcoat.  To this day, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just walked out with it the same manner except that he couldn’t do it.  Petyr had berated himself more than once of late for that moment of weakness. 

His plans for the day changed six days before he was to pick up the clock.   Petyr had nurses on his payroll at most of the well-known doctors in town, especially those who were known to have wealthy clients.  These nurses passed on tidbits that made his way into his columns, such as breaking the news of the Mayor’s daughter’s pregnancy out of wedlock and the former Chief Prosecutor’s cancer.  The latest news from Nurse Stokeworth reported that Dr. Pylos wrote in Sansa’s medical record that she had all the early signs of pregnancy, but it was yet to be confirmed.  It had been all he could do to react with indifference and ask her to let him know when the doctor was certain.  A sharper nurse would have been suspicious since verification wasn’t something Petyr was particularly interested in.  Petyr counted on the fact that Nurse Stokeworth was decidedly not the sharpest knife in the drawer and that she would be too fearful of losing a job.  However, the nurse would have an unfortunate accident of her own in the next day or two.   He was also quite certain he could hire the disgruntled Meryn Trant to take a trip to see to the demise of Blackfish Tully.  Trant had done some dirty work for him before and he had learned the man had no conscience and an appetite for money.  They understood one another. 

Petyr thought he could tolerate Sansa being married to Baratheon since he was certain she would tire of him soon enough.  But he had to face the fact that she would never tire of brats.  Despite all of his efforts, Sansa was like her mother and saw herself as worth nothing more than being a baby factory.  He couldn’t bear it; he wouldn’t bear it.  They would find themselves in the same circles and he would be reminded for years to come of how he had made her into a woman worthy of being by his side and she had thrown it all away.  It would be better for her to be dead than wasted on a boorish policeman and a house full of his mewling monsters.

His new plan required several tricky maneuvers.  The first and most important was having an alibi.  Petyr had to start early to establish a credible plot.  His maid’s night off worked in his favor.  He took out his reel to reel and recorded four hours of him dictating a column and practicing for his radio show.  It was well considered . . . not a constant stream of talking . . . just enough so that anyone passing by the closed door of his office at The Herald would believe he was dictating into his machine.  Petyr even thought to play the reel to reel recording into the Dictaphone to have it re-recorded there for later transcription. 

The next part of the plan required a reason to work out of the office at The Herald since it was not something he normally did.  It would have to be a reason that meant there was too much distraction at his penthouse to work there.  Petyr would also have to manufacture a reason he could not sit in a café and write . . . he would have to make it appear that he could not write without difficulty.  His ego did not appreciate having to appear to be an awkward buffoon who could trip, spill wine on an expensive rug that he’d grown tired of, sprain his wrist (it was amazing what you could get a doctor to believe), and sending the plate of pasta he was carrying into the wall so hard it gouged the wallboard.  Anyone who knew him at all knew that simply patching and painting over the gouge would not do.  Petyr was shelling out for repairs, cleaning, and painting the interior of his entire penthouse.  Ultimately, it gave him the excuse to use the office at The Herald that he’d insisted years ago that he have and seldom used.  For several days, he was seen to go into the office and spending hours where he did actually use the Dictaphone to dictate his column.  It established a pattern.  On each of those days, he came in with something he would need to carry out his plan, including having his chauffeur, Dontos, carry a box with the reel to reel hidden by books sitting over top of it. 

The morning Sansa was to meet her end, Petyr dressed early in one of his trademark suits and had Dontos drive him to the newspaper’s offices, making him wait for hours in the employee parking area just as he had for the three days before this.  Petyr made sure the front receptionist saw him and other staff as well.  Staff on the weekend was light.  His first order of business was to set up the reel to reel and start it.  No one ever dared enter his office while he was there.  Not even Tywin Lannister when he was in the city. 

Changing into the workmen’s clothes had been a loathsome chore, and so had putting boot blacking on his graying temples.  The only threat to being discovered would be his the style of his beard.  Petyr waited to be sure no one had eyes on his office door and left.  Workmen were a common sight in office buildings in the city on the weekend.  He was counting on no one paying attention to him as he left the building, already wearing sunglasses.  He donned a hat as soon as he was outside and made his way to the car he had hired the day before and parked in a pay-as-you-go lot nearby.  It was a quarter past ten o’clock when he headed for the North Shore. 

The drive took a little more than forty minutes and he hated every minute of it.  Petyr saw no good reason to ever leave King’s Landing unless you were going to one of the Free Cities for a change of pace.  Nothing else in Westeros compared to King’s Landing, especially this wretched bay.  Pulling into the drive, he wasn’t prepared for three things.  The first was the oyster shells that he would have to ensure were removed from the treads on the tires.  The second was the mover’s truck already at the house.  And most of all, little boys running around in the yard.  Petyr was seething at the notion that he might not be able to follow through on his plan. 

The movers wore uniforms, so he couldn’t pose as one of them.  Petyr decided to go to knock on the door and see who answered.  A short, somewhat plump lady in her early thirties opened the door.  This was undoubtedly the mother of the boys in the yard and a prime example of a body ruined from childbirth.  Affecting his native Riverrun accent, he feigned, “Are you the lady of the house?”

“No.  I’m afraid she’s not here right now.  May I help you?”

He took a chance that she wouldn’t volunteer to spend any of Baratheon’s money, whoever she was.  “I saw the movers and wondered if you might need some help.  I wouldn’t charge much.”

The look the lady gave him was genuinely sympathetic.  “I am so very sorry.  This is not my house and I have nothing to pay you with.  Would you like some food to take with you?  I’m sure you could . . . “

“Oh no ma’am!  I’m just looking for honest work.  I appreciate your kindness though.  The woman or the man of the house.  Are they around that I might talk to them?”

A baby started crying in the background, so Sansa’s idea of friends was an average housewife with four brats of her own.  “They are at their former residences packing.  If you will excuse me!”

“Certainly!  Good day to you, ma’am!”  Petyr walked back to his car pleased he had the information he needed.  If the woman found a man looking for work driving a Cadillac odd, she didn’t comment on it. 

Sansa had to be at Baratheon’s townhouse.  It would take him forty-five minutes or so to get back to that part of town.  The two boys he had hired to pick up the clock were told not to arrive before twelve thirty despite his telling Baratheon he would be there at noon.  Petyr was infamous for arriving when he wanted to and not when someone expected him.  Baratheon would not be alarmed if he were up to an hour late.  Petyr could make it downtown and be back in his office at The Herald, making sure to stop and compliment the receptionist on whatever dowdy outfit she was wearing and make another comment about how time flew by while he was working, and still make it to Sansa’s apartment by twelve forty-five. 

The only real foil to his original plan was that he would have to kill Sansa sooner than he had planned.   Petyr would have only enough time to make absolutely sure she knew how she had failed him and how she had only herself to blame.

Between weekend shopping traffic and finding parking, it was eleven fifty when Petyr walked up the stoop of Baratheon’s townhouse.  He needed to be done in no later than fifteen minutes and ten would be better. 

A year ago, the one thing Petyr would have changed about Sansa would have been her unfailing politeness.  Today, he counted on it.  At least two of those precious minutes were wasted waiting for Sansa to answer the door.  She was dressed in a pair of white wide-leg trousers and a gold cashmere sweater adorned with a single strand of pearls.   Petyr watched as she stared at him trying to make the pieces fit that it was him despite the clothes and hair.  “Petyr!  I thought you were going to the townhouse?”   

She continued to stare as he smiled at her.  “I will, but I wanted to come by here first.  Will you let me in, My Dear?”

Sansa stood aside for him to enter.  “Are you alone?” he asked, ensuring he sounded very casual.  Since she was pregnant, it was quite possible Baratheon had someone there to assist her.  He had hoped to make this look like an accident, but if he to accept a double homicide, his alibi would still hold.  It would require ensuring his method for killing the other person didn’t get blood on him. 

“Yes.  Stannis and Davos . . . you may have met him with Stannis before . . . are at the apartment.  Please come in.  I’ve packed most of the kitchen, but I can unpack a glass if you’d like a glass of water.  I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer.”  Ever the courteous hostess, Sansa led him into the drawing room.  The townhouse, with its bare white walls was unexceptional, although Petyr grudgingly had to respect the quality turn-of-the-century cherry furniture. 

“You’ve put something on your hair . . . around your temples,” Sansa noted, having finally determined what about him was so different.  “And why are you dressed like a workman?” 

Looking at her, Petyr realized just how difficult it was going to be to take Sansa’s life while gazing up close at her beauty and listening to her lilting voice.  It had been easy to shoot at a shadow that he could barely see.  “I may have to do some manual labor when I go to your apartment and lift a clock.  I didn’t want to get my good clothes dirty.”

Her smile was dazzling as she giggled.  “But your hair?”

Smirking, Petyr told a measure of the truth.  “Do you think I want to be recognized out and about wearing these clothes?  Show me around this barren monstrosity, My Dear.  I know someone who might be house hunting and, in order to make peace, I’ll tell her about the place.” 

She accepted his offer at face value.  Petyr listened and smiled as she showed him the kitchen and dining room, and then took him upstairs . . . which was his primary objective.  He made sure that he followed her so that Sansa could not get past him to escape back downstairs. 

Once they were at the top of the stairs, Sansa led him into a study with bookshelves.  Half of the books were packed in boxes that sat up next to the bookcases. Sansa walked over to a desk and leaned against it.  “This is the study.  It could be used as another bedroom if one didn’t want to use it as a study.” 

Looking at his watch, Petyr noted that eight minutes had passed.  It was time.  “You had to do it, didn’t you, My Dear?  You had to throw the gift I’d given you away.”

“Please, Petyr, don’t start this again!”  Her eyes suddenly showed disappointment . . . _how dare she be disappointed in him!_   “I am grateful to you, truly I am.  This is what I’ve always wanted . . . to marry someone I love, and be a wife and mother.  I don’t understand why this upsets you so.  Did you think I would never marry?”

Petyr took a few steps closer to her, sneering.  “No, you really don’t understand and that’s what fascinates me.  Do you really think I spent a year making you into the most elegant woman in all of King’s Landing to see you ruined?  Did you expect me not to be insulted when you preferred to walk away from everything I put before you, that I made possible for you?”

“I’m not ruined, Petyr!” Sansa insisted, tears forming in her eyes.  “I wish you could see that.”  She hadn’t yet figured out that she should fear him. 

“It’s time to go, My Dear,” Petyr said, smiling as he grabbed her arm. 

“What are you doing, Petyr?”  Sansa cried out, trying to squirm away from his grasp as he pulled her away from the desk.  “You’re hurting me!” 

Petyr continued to smile as he pulled her toward the door.  He had to give her credit; Sansa was resisting as much as she could as she tried to plant her feet and grab at anything that she thought would help her keep from being pulled along with him. 

“Whatever you’re doing, please stop Petyr!” Sansa pleaded.  He could tell knew she was in danger now.  Those stunning blue eyes, just like Cat’s, were wide with fear. 

It incensed him to see her instinctively putting a hand over her stomach as if to protect the brat within, though all she saw from him was a smile.  “My Dear, I’m going to kill you.  It will look like an accident.”  Petyr pulled harder, getting her through the door as she strained to hold onto the frame.  “And poor poor Stannis Baratheon will forever feel it was his fault for leaving you here on your own where you slipped and fell down the stairs.”

Sansa began to fight him in earnest now that she knew his intentions.  Pulling her was taking too much time.  Petyr jerked on her hard until she was out in the hall away from the door.  It knocked her off balance long enough for him to spin her around so that he could be at her back and put his arms around her waist where he could drag her toward the stairs. 

There was about nine feet to the staircase.  “Imagine, My Dear, how Baratheon will feel when he finds out not only his wife was killed, but his child too.”

Sansa continued to try to plant her feet and grab at the stair railing that she couldn’t quite reach while she squirmed.  Petyr managed to move her a few feet closer to the staircase.  “You have no one else to blame but yourself.  You drove me to this, Sansa.  Did you really think I would invest time and my considerable talents on you and then give you away to someone else to bear their brats?”

She started screaming for help and Petyr brought his hand up to try to cover her mouth.  The effort cost him some of the ground he had gained as she was able to back them up a foot or so.  “You didn’t want me!  Not like that,” Sansa tried again, moving violently from side to side to try to break free of him.  ”It was you trying to kill me that night.  Oh Petyr, it was you who killed Jeyne, not Ramsay.”    

“Yes, My Dear.  I wasn’t going to see you with Hardyng anymore than with Baratheon.”  He had her at the head of the staircase now.  Petyr wished she would stand still and stop screaming so that he could turn her around and look at her one time to have the memory, but it wasn’t to be. Closing his eyes while she screamed, Petyr nuzzled her hair and kissed her temple, “Good-bye, My Dear.”

“STANNIS!”  Sansa shouted and just as Petyr moved his arms from around her to put his hands on her waist to push her forward, he saw Baratheon at the bottom of the staircase beginning to take them two at a time, his face an ugly fury.  There was nothing left for Petyr to do but to push her forward towards him. 


	31. Chapter 31

King’s Landing, 1940  
Stannis Baratheon

 

Stannis could hear her scream as he ran to the stoop and it both cut through him like a knife, urging him onward with the gun he always carried in his glove compartment drawn.  Speed was more important than stealth, and while her screaming was killing him, with any luck, it covered his arrival long enough for him to see what was going on and know what to do.  ”It was you trying to kill me that night.  Oh Petyr, it was you who killed Jeyne, not Ramsay,” Stannis heard her wrench out with struggling breaths.  _Keep fighting!_  

“Yes, My Dear.  I wasn’t going to see you with Hardyng anymore than with Baratheon,” he heard the monster respond in a calm tone.  Stannis was now through the door and able to see Baelish holding Sansa at the top of the stairs with both arms around her as she struggled against him.  His eyes were closed and his face was buried in her hair.  “Goodbye, My Dear.”

Stannis realized he didn’t have a shot that didn’t endanger Sansa as he ran for the stairs to close the gap between them.  He slowed for only a second to tuck the gun in his waistband at his back as he ran, knowing he would need both hands.  _Keep screaming; keep him distracted!_    

 _Be careful what you wish for._   Just as he took the first two stairs, Sansa screamed out his name and Baelish opened his eyes.  Stannis took two more stairs as he saw Baelish’s arms move from around her and position themselves on hips.  Taking two more, he glanced quickly at Sansa, hoping she would see that he was close enough now to break her fall.  It was possible he would try to back up with her, but Stannis saw no weapon and Baelish knew as well as he did there was nowhere for him to go. 

Putting one hand on the railing to help him hold on, he started to take the next two stairs when the evil bastard grinned and him and pushed her.  Stannis lunged for her as she came towards him, Sansa’s feet caught a stair and she came at him sideways.  Stannis reached out with one hand to catch her while still holding the railing to keep her momentum from taking them both down.  It worked.  Sansa was in his arms and they were both stopped in the middle of the staircase. 

Holding her tightly while she dissolved into sobs, Stannis ran his hands over her back.  “Are you hurt?”

Rather than answer, Sansa continued to sob as he tried to check for broken bones or injuries.  They were sobs of anguish, but he couldn’t hear any wincing in pain.  In the background, he heard Baelish rooting around in a drawer in his study.  The gun that he used to keep in there was now at High Cliff.  “You’re safe now.  It’s over . . . it really is over now,” he kept repeating. 

Two uniformed constables ran in through the door he’d left open.  As much as he hated to let go of her, Stannis needed to stop Baelish from either finding a weapon or getting away through a window.  “You!  Go through to the back and make sure he doesn’t go out a window!” he ordered one of the uniforms.  “You!  Get Mrs. Baratheon out of here if she can move.  Radio for an ambulance and watch the front!” 

As gently as he could, Stannis let Sansa down to sit on the stair while the constable approached her.  He kissed the top of her head and then made his way up the stairs.  Stannis’ jaws had been clenched since he figured out Baelish’s intention to get her alone.  He realized he had deliberately sent the uniforms out so that he could be alone with Baelish.   Trying to firmly make up his mind about what to do, Stannis forced himself to stand at the top of the stairs and make his decision.  He could go into the study with his Colt revolver drawn and arrest him.  Or, he could put the revolver away where Baelish couldn’t pull it from his waistband and beat him to a bloody pulp.  It would mean giving up his career in law enforcement.  Stannis looked back down the stairs as the constable helped Sansa down the stairs.  She may have a sprained ankle and bruises. 

Sansa must have sensed he was watching her for she turned around and caught his eyes.  They were still watery, but they also showed absolute faith in him as she gave him the closest she could manage to a smile.  Nodding at her, Stannis watched her head away before he turned.  His mind was made up.  Stannis took his Colt revolver out of his waistband and put it in the small drawer of an occasional table in the hallway before make his way to the study. 

If he had any doubts about what he intended, they were gone the minute he saw the smug look on Baelish’s face as he stood there waiting.  “Well, we’re both dressed for it.  You without your suit jacket and your sleeves rolled up.  Me in this hideous garb.  It’s only fitting that we fight for her, isn’t it Baratheon?” he said calmly with a sardonic smile.  “She was mine and you stole her.”

He didn’t want to hear any more.  Stannis lunged toward him and drew his arm back, driving his fist into Baelish’s jaw.  “Sansa isn’t property either one of us can own.” 

Baelish spun around, hitting one of the empty boxes on his way to the floor and smashing it.  While he was opening and closing his eyes, Stannis reached down and grabbed him by his shirt lapels.  He pulled him up and hit him again.  This punch sent him up against the wall.  From the floor, Baelish continued to smile up at him as he wiped the blood from his mouth. “You’re just like Stark,” Baelish said as he gulped for air.  “The only thing you know to do with a woman like that is put a brat in her.” 

Stannis let him get to his feet on his own.  “And you don’t know how to do that,” he hissed. 

When Baelish finally stood, Stannis moved his right back to punch him again.  Baelish met this with a running tackle, sending both of them into one of the bookcases.  Books fell on both of them and the bookcases teetered precariously.  Stannis was the first to recover and get back on his feet.  He grabbed Baelish by the arm and spun him around, aiming for his jaw.  Before he landed the blow, Baelish managed a punch to his gut that doubled him for a second.  Stannis came up with an undercut that sent Baelish spinning until he was sprawled across the front of the writing desk.

Spitting out blood, Baelish turned around, still smiling as he staggered to stay on his feet.  Stannis was trying to figure out if he was going to take another swing at him or if he’d had enough and was ready to arrest him when Baelish dove at him.  Stannis felt something pierce into his shoulder and heard a clanging sound.  Looking down he saw his letter opener on the floor.  The blade had ripped a hole in his shirt and left a shallow gash that was bleeding.  Baelish made an attempt to grapple with him, but Stannis pushed him back far enough to allow him to land a one-two gut punch of his own. 

With the wind knocked out of him, Baelish fell back on the floor.  Stannis pounced on him and pinned him down.  The next punch to Baelish’s face knocked him out and at least loosened some teeth if it didn’t knock one or two out entirely.  His heart racing and teeth grinding, Stannis was going for a second punch that would do as he promised, break his jaw, when he heard a voice behind him. 

“Sansa’s waiting for you outside,” Seaworth said from the doorway.  “She won’t go to the hospital without you.”   

It was time to stop, as much as he wanted to keep pounding Baelish’s face until it was unrecognizable.  Slowly, Stannis got to his feet, breathing hard and glaring down as Baelish started to come to.  There was a certain amount of satisfaction in hearing the painful groan and seeing his face swell.    

Suddenly feeling the pain of his bloody knuckles, Stannis flexed his fingers back and forth into a fist and out as he stepped aside to allow two more uniforms to pick up Baelish and handcuff him. 

“The uniforms should probably take him in the ambulance,” Seaworth recommended, giving Stannis a sympathetic look.  “You should take Sansa to get her ankle checked out and to see to your hand.” 

“Would you call Robert and ask him to meet us at the hospital?   His driver can take you home and come back for him.” 

“Sure,” Seaworth returned.  “I’ll stay behind until everything’s settled here and locked up.” 

Nodding, Stannis turned and made his way down the stairs and through the drawing room and foyer to the front door.  As soon as he was on the stoop, Sansa left the car where she’d been sitting to wait and began to limp toward him.  Stannis broke out into a run to meet her and gathered her into his arms.   “I promise you it’s over now,” he whispered, holding her tight. 

Moving her head back, Stannis took the invitation and kissed her.  It wasn’t a kiss of passion as much as a kiss that assured them both the other was there and alive.   

Sansa began to shake and he turned just enough to see that the uniforms were bringing Baelish out the front door.  He was able to walk on his own, but Stannis doubted he could see out of his swollen left eye.  Baelish still managed to give them an evil smile as soon as he saw they were watching.  They both watched in silence as he was put into the patrol car and taken away. 

“Come on, Darling.  Lean on me,” Stannis said softly, “We need to get your ankle checked out.” 

Once they were in the car, he realized Sansa hadn’t said anything and he needed to hear her voice.  “Are you hurt or injured anywhere else?”

“No,” Sansa murmured.  It was the same tone she had used at her cottage the day she’d faced Ramsay Bolton there.  “Nothing else hurts.  Did you . . . did you do that to Petyr?”

“Yes,” he admitted, wishing she would scoot close to him as she often did in the car even though he could barely grip the steering wheel with his right hand.  Stannis decided he would wait to tell her he would have to resign because of it.  The Commissioner and the Mayor may not require it or would find excuses for his behavior, but rules were rules.  He could never ask those working under him obey the rules if he could not. 

Stannis looked briefly at Sansa as he pulled away from the curb of his reserved parking space onto the road.  It would take her time to recover.  She’d been through far too much in the last year.  If she wanted far away from Kings Landing or didn’t want to live at High Cliff anymore, he would take her wherever she wanted to go . . . to Winterfell, Braavos, anywhere.  Perhaps a long sailing voyage with just the two of them would help her heal. 

“I knew you’d save us,” Sansa said suddenly.  “I was terrified, but I knew you’d be there if I could buy a little time.  I just . . . I just knew.”

 _Us?_   “Us?” he asked aloud.

“Our baby and me,” Sansa replied, her blue eyes tearing again as took his eyes off the road to meet them. 

It took a second for what she’d said to sink in and he almost hit the car in front of them.  Stannis wanted to pull over and take her in his arms again, but he needed to get her to the hospital.  Instead, he took her hand and brought it up to his lips while he made more of an effort to keep his eyes on the road.  “You are going to be a wonderful mother.” 

Stannis had much more he wanted to ask and much more he wanted to say . . . but it would have to wait. 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive all legal errors!

King’s Landing, 1940  
Sansa Baratheon

 

Marya told her recently that if someone had said that Stannis Baratheon would turn out to be her idea of a romantic man when she met him, she would have laughed for weeks.  Sansa didn’t need Marya to explain what it was that made a man who seldom had a facial expression that wasn’t a scowl earn such an accolade.  Marya saw the cut flowers delivered to Sansa every month to celebrate the day they were married.  She was the first to comment to Sansa that she noticed how Stannis always stopped what he was doing or saying to anyone for a few seconds to watch Sansa come into a room.  It probably also included Stannis’ insistence that he had no regrets about giving up his career in law enforcement whenever anyone would ask him since Marya would have heard from Davos why Stannis resigned despite insistence from every quarter that it wasn’t necessary. 

There were other things Stannis did that Sansa wasn’t sure qualified as additional reasons for Marya’s praise of him as a romantic, but meant even more to Sansa.  There was his not working at a full-time job, using various excuses such as wanting to supervise the addition of the wing to the house, seeing to the sale of their other real estate, and helping her set up a nursery.  It had really been for no other reason than to be there to hold her when Sansa had bouts of uncontrollable shaking or started sobbing for no discernable reason.  There was knowing he would gradually increase the time he spent at Barasteel over the next year as time helped make her less and less afraid.  It was his insisting there was enough work to do at High Cliff to employ Mrs. Glover to stay there all day so Sansa was never alone when he did have to leave her for some reason.  It was his learning to endure playing host in his home to poker night every weekend when he never knew who of their friends and family would show up or how many poker games would be going on in the house because he knew having people around made Sansa happy and made her feel safer.  It was his insisting on having Marya teach him to diaper Stanny so he’d be able to diaper their firstborn.  It was the way he would walk up to her and place his hands on her lower abdomen where their child rested and the way his eyes would light up.  It was the way, after months of marriage, that Stannis still kissed her with as much passion as he had the first time despite the changes she had brought about in his life.  It was the way he still said one thing and meant something else entirely . . . something that would tell her how much he loved her.

The first four months after _The Incident_ had been the most difficult for both of them.  Physically, Sansa was better off than Stannis.  Her ankle was sore and swollen, but nothing compared to his right hand.  While he insisted on her being the only one in need of medical attention at the emergency ward, doctors insisted on x-raying his hand and found nothing broken, but several fractures.  The bigger fear had been of Robert having a heart attack once he saw her using a crutch and Stannis’ hand wrapped.  It had taken telling him he was going to be an uncle and that the doctor thought there had been no danger done to the baby to get him to settle down. 

Not wanting to leave her, Stannis sent Robert off on a mission to ensure that Petyr Baelish did not get bail.  She couldn’t hear what Stannis said, but whatever it was, Robert relayed for all that if Baelish did get bail, he’d be there armed and ready.  More than once that night, Robert chastised Stannis for not killing Petyr and she could see that he was beginning to regret it too.  Sansa was glad he didn’t have Petyr’s blood on his hands even though she couldn’t manage to articulate it at the time. 

Mentally, Sansa could not seem to control her thoughts and emotions, and it affected her sleep.  Doctors wanted to give her sleeping pills, but she remembered her mother once saying that what the mother ate or drank, the baby did too and a baby may not be able to handle it as well.  Stannis making love to her until they were both exhausted helped her fall asleep, but then the nightmare of Petyr dragging her toward the stairs and waiting for Stannis would wake her.  She’d meant what she said . . . at the time, she believed Stannis would save her if she could only buy him time.  Sansa had felt him coming for her.  The nightmares, ones she had while awake and asleep, were about not buying him enough time.  There were two that she had while sleeping.  One ended with her falling and Stannis not being there.  She would often wake up in a cold sweat after this nightmare.  The other was that she was alive after the fall, but Dr. Pylos stood over her telling her their baby wasn’t.  Sansa woke up from that one screaming.  Each time, Stannis would hold her, smoothing her hair, rubbing her back, and telling her it was all over.  Without any sign of resentment, Stannis occupied himself at High Cliff.  He never hovered over her and yet was always there when she needed him to hold her.     

The reporters were relentless the first week and Stannis hired Sandor Clegane to keep them away from the house as much as one man was able . . . and he proved very able.  While this antagonized some and caused them to write some very sensationalist garbage about the Baratheons having a vendetta against Petyr, Robert and Renly managed to use their resources to ensure the truth was told . . . that Stannis as a man defending his wife and child against another man who tried to murder her once, killed Jeyne instead, and then tried to kill her again.  Myrcella told her that Petyr wrote letters to the editor, but her grandfather gave strict orders not to have them published.  Stannis tried to keep her from knowing any of this.  He’d stopped delivery of The Herald at High Cliff almost immediately, but he couldn’t keep her from hearing bits and pieces on the radio.  Stannis didn’t really have to try; Sansa would turn it off as soon as she heard the start of any related news. 

There was a brief sensation later the next week when DI Trant was arrested in the Vale for breaking into her Uncle Brynden’s solicitor’s office.  It came out that Baelish had paid him to search for information held there.  In a plea bargain, Trant agreed to give evidence against Baelish and her uncle released information on Baelish’s family history, particularly his grandfather’s running of brothels that included taking in orphaned girls to raise them for his trade.  Stannis told her the story as succinctly as he could, knowing Sansa needed to be aware since it involved her family. 

There were happy events too.  Myrcella and Trys were married in a large wedding where Robert and Cersei declared peace for one day despite not speaking to each other at all during both the wedding and the reception.  Myrcella managed to find humor in the bizarre that followed.  The banquet room at the King’s Arms seemed to have invisible lines drawn to divide the room into three areas with the Lannisters huddled in one area, the Martells in the second area, and the Baratheons gather in the third while the newlyweds tried to spend time socializing with all three factions.  Stannis had not been overly thrilled when Sansa insisted they cross those boundaries as well.  Stannis flatly refused to talk to Cersei and she admitted she would like to avoid Joffrey just because he always made her uncomfortable.  Sansa had an amusing conversation with Tyrion Lannister and was equally entertained by Oberyn Martell until he got a little too flirty and she saw Stannis’ jaw begin to clench.  

Peace reigned for a short time until Petyr’s trial started two months after The Incident.   Stannis was beyond furious when he learned that Petyr was being allowed to act as his own counsel and, as such, would be allowed to question Sansa on the witness stand.  Sansa actually thought he was in more anguish than she when he coached her on how to respond as they tried to think of all the questions and ways Petyr might try to intimidate her and harass her despite the lack of benefit to his case.  She also had to spend time with Prosecutor Sparrow in order to prepare.  There was a part of her that was terrified and yet there was another part of her that hoped to get it over with as soon as possible. 

Robb came to King’s Landing and stayed with them for the duration of the trial.  Stannis told her that since he was being called as a witness, he couldn’t be in the courtroom when she testified.  He suggested she look Petyr in the eye as little as possible and look at Robb or Robert instead.  It would irritate him, but he couldn’t compel her to do otherwise.  Sansa had a tactic of her own.  Although she was only a little over three month’s pregnant at the time, she wore a blue skirt with a matching top that was obviously a maternity smock top.  Sansa wasn’t quite sure if the gleam in Stannis’ eye was over seeing her in her first maternity outfit or whether he knew what she was doing and was proud of her for it.  She didn’t ask because she rather hoped it was both. 

The only time she let her eyes rest on Petyr was to quickly assess his reaction to her outfit.  The sneer Petyr gave her said that her maternity outfit accomplished its goal. 

Sansa’s victory was short lived as she sat on the witness stand and answered Prosecutor Sparrow’s questions about the time she and Petyr were friends, about Jeyne, arriving back to find she was thought dead, Ramsay Bolton, Petyr’s behavior just before and after her marriage, and the day of The Incident.  Several times, she teared up and then she would look at Robert or Robb, and gained strength to keep going. 

“Good morning, My Dear,” Petyr said as he stood to question her.  It sounded like he was addressing her as he would have a year ago although they seldom if ever saw each other in the morning. 

“If it please Your Honor, we would appreciate it if Mr. Baelish would address Mrs. Baratheon appropriately,” Prosecutor Sparrow requested. 

This time, Sansa kept her eyes on Robb as Petyr asked his first question.  “Well then . . . Mrs. Baratheon . . . we were friends once, were we not?”

“Yes,” she answered, still keeping her eyes on Robb who tried to smile at her. 

“We were actually closer than friends, were we not?” Petyr pressed. 

“At one time, we were good friends.” 

Petyr addressed the judge.  “Your Honor, Mrs. Baratheon has obviously been instructed not to look at me.  It is prejudicial.” 

“Mrs. Baratheon, were you instructed not to look directly at Mr. Baelish?” the judge inquired. 

Sansa took a deep breath and looked the judge in the eye, giving the answer she had rehearsed with Stannis.  “I was advised by private counsel that if eye contact with Mr. Baelish would make it difficult for me to testify, I need not look at him.” 

“I maintain that is prejudicial, your honor,” Petyr insisted. 

The judge did not like Petyr asking twice and told him so.  “The law requires that you be able to face your accusers, Mr. Baelish.  There is no legal requirement for any witness to make eye contact with you as the accused or as counsel.”

For the most part, Petyr’s questions were surprisingly easy, far easier than having to talk about the worst parts of the last year in answer to the prosecutor’s questions.  It was as if Petyr only meant to remind her that they had once been close and getting her to admit that she had benefited from knowing him.  The only questions that were truly upsetting were the last two.    

“Mrs. Baratheon, did it never occur to you that our mutual acquaintances thought of us as a couple?”

Sansa made eye contact with Robert.  His attempt to look like scowl like Stannis as if he thought it would comfort her in some way would have made her laugh under other circumstances.  “Yes, I was aware that some made that mistake about our relationship.” 

Petyr tried clearing his throat to see if that would make her look at him.  She was now focusing on Robb as Petyr asked the next question.  “Then I ask you only one more question, Mrs. Baratheon.   Can you understand how humiliated I was to be replaced by an impoverished gigolo and a tediously boring detective?”

Prosecutor Sparrow objected that the question was irrelevant and the judge started to make his ruling when in a fit of pique, Sansa looked Petyr straight in the eye for the first and last time.  “No, Petyr.  No matter what anyone, including you, thought, we were never more than friends.  You had no right to be humiliated or to do anything that you’ve done.  No right whatsoever.”

From what Stannis told her, Petyr’s questions to him tried to paint a picture of a man being driven to murder.  After four days, the jury found Petyr guilty and the judge sentenced him to hang.  Sansa cried most of that night while Stannis held her.  No one told her the date of his execution and she purposely avoided the radio for well over a month, listening to phonograph records instead.  However, she knew it must have been some time a month later when Stannis took her sailing to White Harbor and back. 

Every day got a little better, especially after she felt their child’s first kick and her stomach began to round.  The new wing of the house was done when they got back from White Harbor with a new master suite with a closet and full bath; two more bedrooms, one of which would be used as the nursery; and another bathroom.  Stannis had arranged for it to be painted while they were gone since strong fumes or smells made her nauseous.   Decorating and buying for the nursery started to make her feel less and less anxious, and more like herself. 

Stannis began to go into the Barasteel offices for longer periods during the day, taking over all contract negotiations and legal matters.  He also consulted on difficult cases for the King’s Landing Police Department and admitted he liked occasionally being on a case rather than the desk job he’d left as a chief inspector. 

Only a week past their nine-month anniversary, Sansa went into labor.  Her husband, who had insisted they make the drive to King’s Landing General twice to time the journey in the last month, who had also insisted her suitcase be packed and by the door for the past two weeks, and who had a list somewhere of things to do . . . that man almost fell apart when her water broke.  Sansa had no idea what was on the list and she knew she didn’t need to go in right away; however, fear that Stannis would need medical attention if she made him wait prompted her to agree to go as soon as she changed clothes. 

The names they had picked out were compromises in another of those episodes where they were both trying to sacrifice for each other.  Sansa was insisting on Steffon for a boy and Casanna for a girl while Stannis argued that it should be Ned for a boy and Catelyn for a girl.  The compromise was to name a daughter after Stannis’ beloved Great-Aunt Shireen or to name a son after the Great-Uncle she owed so much to, Brynden Tully.  Shireen Baratheon arrived after seventeen hours of labor with a head full of raven hair and light blue eyes. 

On Shireen’s first day at High Cliff, she was surrounded by people who wanted to hold her when they could get her father to let go of her.  At one point, Sansa was seriously worried that Stannis was going to start the brotherly estrangement all over again courtesy of an argument with Robert over not holding Shireen exactly the way Stannis thought safest.  Renly was by far the most nervous holding his niece, although Sansa wasn’t sure if it was fear of holding a baby, being wet on, or Stannis not approving of the way he was doing it.  When little Devan Seaworth wanted to hold her, Stannis clenched his jaw the whole time Sansa and Marya had Devan sit on the sofa and put Shireen in his lap.  Shireen seemed to take being passed around like a parcel rather well, only crying when faced with Renly’s obvious nervousness.  Myrcella wanted to rock her to sleep and Sandor was too afraid to do more than look at Shireen, who he called Baby Bird.  Sansa was amused to see Stannis visibly relax when his daughter was safely back in the bassinette. 

Later that night, Stannis moved the bassinette into their bedroom and sat it on Sansa’s side of the bed, rocking the bassinette although Shireen was already asleep.  Sansa changed into a comfortable flowing nightgown and joined him. 

“Guess it would be too soon to make another one of these after your six week’s checkup,” Stannis whispered, putting an arm around her waist. 

She rested her head on his shoulder, “You might reconsider that request after a few months of sleepless nights and several years of diaper changes.  However, I am amenable to a great deal of practicing in the meantime.” 

Stannis ran his hand up and down her arm a few times.  “Ready for bed?”

“Yes,” she replied, resisting the urge to pick Shireen up just to kiss her one more time. 

Stannis moved around to his side of the bed but still standing.   She turned to sit sideways on the bed and watched while he took off his cufflinks and then his watch to set them in a dish on his night table.  A memory hit her and Sansa couldn’t help letting out a laugh. 

He looked at her with a scowl, “What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Sansa said but was still smiling and biting her lip to stop another laugh. 

Stannis’ eyes narrowed and his voice was a loud whisper.  “Something has you amused.” 

Knowing he would spend half the night trying to figure it out and would never be able to do so, Sansa decided to tell him although she doubted he would see the humor.  “The first time I saw this house, when we went upstairs, I had this vision of you sitting on the bed and taking off your watch.  I am fairly certain it was then that I realized I was in love with you.  Yet, in all the time we’ve been together, you have never sat on the bed to take off your watch.  You always stand.” 

He raised an eyebrow, taking off his shirt and putting on the chair.  “I hope you aren’t telling me you believe this is some sign that you married the wrong man.” 

“Oh no!  I have never, for one minute, thought I married the wrong man,” Sansa insisted, continuing to watch while he undressed down to his boxers.  Stannis disappeared into the closet for a moment with his suit pants to hang them up before returning to turn out the lights and get into bed with her. 

She cuddled close to him and they shared a languid kiss before she moved to put her head on his shoulder.  “There is one thing I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time and, well, couldn’t bring myself to do so before now.” 

“Yes?” Stannis invited, stroking her arm lazily. 

Sansa was surprised she could bring up anything related to certain parts of their past together.  She couldn’t have done so a month ago, or possibly even a week ago.  “Why were you really in my apartment so late that first night we met?”

The question was initially greeted with silence.  She knew he wasn’t asleep because he was still stroking her arm.  Sansa was starting to drift off to sleep when he began to speak.  “I was talking to your portrait.  I fell asleep declaring that I wouldn’t have taken advantage of you or taken you for granted as others did.  When I woke up . . . I thought perhaps you were there to haunt me for my audacity.” 

“Hmmm,” Sansa murmured, stifling a yawn.  “I plan to haunt you for a very long time.” 

Stannis kissed the top of her head.  “I’m counting on it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to EVERYONE who read this rather lengthy fic and a VERY SPECIAL THANK YOU to everyone who commented! Y'all are awesome! 
> 
> Also, want to tell Tommyginger how much I appreciate all her help. If you were able to visualize an outfit or piece of jewelry, you can bet it was because of the description she gave me. There is no better muse out there!
> 
> As a PS about Petyr's trial and execution - I did some research on how fast a trial, sentencing, and a hanging could take place in the UK in the 40s and 50s. To cite one infamous case - the crime took place on 2 Nov 52, the trial was 9-11 Dec 52, and the execution was 28 Jan 53.


End file.
